


In Hell I'll Be In Good Company

by rook_fern



Series: Hiraeth [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, Angst and Feels, Dimension Travel, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Lucifer, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Sick Character, Whump, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-06 08:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13406994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rook_fern/pseuds/rook_fern
Summary: What if instead of the Sinnerman plunking Lucifer in the desert, it was actually his Father? What happens when Lucifer is shoved through a rip in the world to fix the mess the Winchesters have stirred up?ORLucifer gets his wings back and ends up putting up with a lot more shit than he's signed up for. All he really wants is some goddamn peace and quiet. Having Chloe Decker at his side once more would be nice, too.





	1. Gone

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this fic back in August, thinking "what would happen if Lucifer Morningstar ended up in the Winchester's universe?" Originally, before season 13 of Supernatural started, I was going to have Jack be the bad guy, but I think we all know how that went.
> 
> I don't know how long this will end up being, nor how quickly I will update. However, I do know that the other chapters probably won't be anywhere near this long (though saying that, I'm reminded that chapter two is nearly this long, so I don't really know).

It was gone. LUX was gone.

After waking up half naked in the desert with an almighty Fuck You from Dad pinned to his back, Lucifer had a clear plan. Get back to LA, apologize to Chloe, deal with his new wings later. It was simple; it shouldn’t have had a single hiccup… except for the fact that something was oh so horribly wrong.

LUX wasn’t the only thing missing. Chloe’s name wasn’t anywhere to be found in a phone book, and calling the detective’s number only gave him an old lady thinking he was trying to sell her life insurance. Hell, he couldn’t even find  _ his _ own name  _ anywhere _ . No one seemed to recognize him, and he was one of the more talked about faces in LA. There was an office listed under a Dr. Linda Martin, but even that information was all wrong.

Lucifer couldn’t give it much thought, however. A feeling wriggled its way into his mind, distracting him from the ever-growing sense of foreboding that was filling him. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time - a good three thousand years at least. There was an abomination upon the earth. A nephilim.

Maybe that was the reason everything was so wrong… At least it was a lead, the beginning of a thread he could pull until this whole mess unraveled. Ducking out of sight of the humans filing up and down the street, Lucifer allowed his wings to unfurl. They were annoying and infuriating, and they kept reflecting the blinding sunlight into his eyes, but for now, they were his only source of transportation. Whoever had fucked everything up (his father, he presumed) hadn’t been kind enough to send his Corvette along with him. A few strong strokes lifted him into the air. Flying was just as he remembered, with the wind whisking past his ears and tugging at his feathers. Maybe it was like riding a bike.

Flying, it turned out, was  _ not  _ like riding a bike—unless riding a bike entailed hurtling halfway across the United States in a few heartbeats before suddenly plummeting in a fit of exhaustion. The ground was gradually getting closer, but it was hard to gauge how fast he was falling with the biting wind stinging his eyes. Finally, the treetops rushed to meet him, and he smashed (thankfully not face first; he might be immortal, but it would still hurt like a son of a bitch) into the dirt on the side of a road.

Everything faded out for a few seconds before the dust settled, and he found himself in a small crater of upturned dirt and gravel. Spitting out bits of grass and rock, Lucifer rose to his feet and brushed off his pants and ragged skin as best as possible. In addition to his already sunburnt and peeling skin, he was now streaked with mud and grass stains. With a bit of struggling and cursing, he managed to get his wings to vanish again; however, they continued to grate on him like sand was caught between the feathers.

A few steps made his limbs tremble with exhaustion; it seemed throwing oneself across the country with atrophied wings was quite draining. He couldn’t stop, though. Not yet; he had to figure out what was happening and fix it. Lucifer paused, tilting his head skyward. The nephilim was close. Somehow, he had managed to throw himself in the right direction. Only a few miles of walking to go…

Walking without shoes on a poorly paved backroad was murder on the feet, Lucifer soon found. Each step forward was accompanied with a grimace and a curse. Eventually, a few vestiges of civilization peeked out from the neverending stream of trees and road. The only problem was that they looked like they hadn’t housed any actual people in a good half century. Nevertheless, Lucifer approached the abandoned building; if anything, it was a place to rest his weary feet.

The door to the place was a real head turner, carved and decorated with intricate symbols. The most prominent was an aquarian star. Curious, Lucifer tried the door. As any door did, it unlocked under his touch, though this one seemed hesitant to. There was a power struggle between him and the door before he came out on top. Dutifully, the door swung open. A wave of cool air washed over him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The interior lacked the stale smell he was expecting; instead, it smelled of old books, dust, coffee, alcohol, and a whiff of bacon. So, maybe the place wasn’t abandoned, and the owners were into some kind of weird cult shit—and good food.

Lucifer prowled further into the establishment. Beyond the door was a staircase leading down into a very headquarter-y base area filled with technology from a cheesy 50’s sci-fi movie. Beyond that was the source of the old book smell; rows and rows of bookshelves stretched out, interspaced with tables and chairs. Perhaps this place wasn’t so bad.

He didn’t get much farther than the bottom of the stairs before the click of cocking guns made him freeze. Looking up, he was faced with a pair of very angry lumberjacks. Both were garbed in an ungodly amount of flannel, and one was sporting a messy face of stubble and tired eyes while the other boasted a grand mane of shoulder-length hair.

“Ah,” Lucifer winced internally at the way his voice grated discordantly along his dry throat. “I suppose you two apes are the owners of this time vault.”

Neither shifted a muscle. The shorter (Lucifer dubbed him Tweedledee) addressed him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice was deep and rough, obviously abused by a copious amount of hard liquor. The taller (Tweedledum) said nothing, and Lucifer took it as a cue to answer Tweedledee’s question.

“That… is rather difficult to answer. Would you find looking for a glass of water a suitable response?”

Tweedledum shifted his stance, studying Lucifer. “Who are you and who sent you?” He appeared to be the more intelligent of the two, so Lucifer turned his attention towards the man.

“The name’s Lucifer Morningstar, and I believe the initiator of my little conundrum is my ass of a father.” His patience (and consciousness) was starting to wear thin, and weariness was weighing at him. His words came out as a harsh bark at the mentioning of Dear Old Dad.

Something in his sentence sparked a reaction, but not really the one he was looking for. Instead of defusing the situation, it only made the plaid duo straighten and take an aggressive step forward. They moved with an odd synchrony that bothered Lucifer a little. “Right, you’re the Devil,” Tweedledee was talking again; his dry tone was drenched with sarcasm.

“What? Need a demonstration?” Lucifer was at the end of his rope. He wanted this idiotic little confrontation to end; what did it matter if a few humans went insane? They were in the middle of nowhere, anyway. He attempted to melt away his human visage and show the burnt mess underneath, but nothing changed. (So Dad had taken away his Devil face; just another thing to be pissed about.) Instead, he let his eyes burn with hellfire; at least they hadn’t been affected. “Is that enough proof for you?”

Again (infuriatingly), the humans didn’t react like he expected. There was no screaming, crying, begging, or even wetting of pants. They just continued to look more angry. “What are you—some kind of demon?” Tweedledee seemed intent on getting a rise out of the Devil.

This time, Lucifer didn’t hold back; he was done playing games. “A  _ demon? _ ” He let his wings emerge from their hiding place (causing a few grains of sand to trickle to the floor; he did his best to ignore them) and flared them out; they ate up the space and replaced it with sharp white feathers. His voice rumbled in his chest and roared out of his throat like an untamed beast. “I’m Lucifer  _ bloody  _ Morningstar.” He advanced on the pair, barely noticing when bullets plinked off him like pebbles.

Embarrassingly, he didn’t make it more than a few steps before his legs decided to fail him and drop him to the floor in a flurry of rage and feathers. Mind-numbing sleep suddenly sounded like a really good idea, and he couldn’t care less that the last thing he saw was a discarded bullet rolling up near his nose.

* * *

 

Waking up from an exhaustion-induced unconsciousness was a fuck-ton more painful than falling into one. It didn’t help that Lucifer found himself manacled to a chair in what could only be described as a dungeon (and sadly, not the sexy kind). It was dank and dark and stank slightly of smoke, blood, and acrid herbs. His wings were still visible as well, and they too were bound in a very uncomfortable position. However, it only took him a few minutes to free himself completely; it would have taken less time if his head had stopped pounding every time he moved too sharply.

His captors and resident lumberjacks were nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait too long before they entered the little dungeon. Neither seemed to be expecting Lucifer to be awake yet, much less free. Once more, gun barrels were thrust into his face.

“Come now, gentlemen. You’ve tried this already—”

Tweedledee fired. Lucifer was braced for the tiny bruising that usually followed a bullet; he wasn’t prepared for the bullet to actually hurt him.  _ “Bloody hell!” _ He cried out, instinctively crowding his injured wing closer to him. The wound burned, even more so than the time Chloe had shot him, and dark blood stained the feathers red and pink.  _ “What the devil was that for?” _

“Stay where you are, or the next one will be through the heart,” Tweedledee threatened, his expression hard-set.

Swallowing the pain, Lucifer slowly raised his hands in a surrendering position. “Gentlemen, there’s got to be a way to peacefully settle this little standoff.”

Tweedledum waved his extended gun at him. “Get back in the chair.”

The two apes didn’t seem too keen of talking things out, so Lucifer complied. He placed himself back in the chair, but he made no move to put the manacles back on. It didn’t seem to bother the duo; at least they had figured out that no binds could hold him.

“Right, here’s how this is gonna go,” Tweedledee had taken command of the situation again. “We’re going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer them.”

“And if I don’t?” Lucifer was pretty sure what was going to happen if he didn’t, but it seemed like such a necessary piece of dialogue that he said it anyway.

As if on cue, Tweedledee answered. “You get another bullet in those pretty wings of yours.” He glanced at Tweedledum before nodding. Apparently, it was Bigfoot’s turn to lead the show.

There was an awkward moment of dead silence before Tweedledum deigned to speak. “What are you?”

Lucifer sighed. “I told you, I’m the Devil. Beelzebub, Belial, Old Scratch… perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Lucifer got shoved through a rip in the world.”

The cogs in Lucifer’s head turned, and he directed his full attention to the giant towering over him. “Come again?”

“The Devil got his ass kicked into another dimension,” Tweedledee provided the terse quip.

Ah. That would explain a lot. Lucifer sent a quick glower at the ceiling.  _ Thanks, Dad _ . “And why do you have a stick shoved up your ass? Miss the old Devil?”

_ That  _ got a rise out of Tweedledee. The man gave him a glare so filled with fury and pain it would kill a lesser being (or at least scare them back to whence they came), and he forged a hellbent path towards Lucifer. Tweedledum intervened. “Dean!”

Finally, a name! (Lucifer was tempted to keep the nickname.)

The two fell into a hushed conversation which Lucifer strained to hear snippets of. He got words like  _ “Devil”  _ (him?),  _ “dead” _ (he didn’t like the sound of that one), and  _ “Cas”  _ (Dean looked like someone had stabbed him).

He cleared his throat in an attempt to get their attention. “Could I possibly share my side of the story? It could clear things up a bit.” He paused as the duo looked at him. “Also, might I trouble you for a bandage? I’d rather not die from blood loss. And possibly a shirt as well?”

Dean and Tweedledum had a silent conversation before Dean exited the dungeon, and Lucifer was left with Bigfoot for company. He only lasted a few minutes before asking, “So, what’s your name?”

The man spared him a glance as if considering his answer. “Sam,” he finally said.

Dean and Sam. Sam and Dean. Such boring, bland names (about as creative as their owners’ fashion sense). “You and Dean. Friends? Brothers? Partners?” Sam seemed much more willing to talk, so Lucifer let his curiosity wander.

“Brothers.” That question made Sam uncomfortable, and Lucifer wondered what people assumed of them. “You haven’t heard of us? We’re kind of well known.”

“Well,” Lucifer allowed a faint chuckle (not that he was really amused; he was beyond pissed). “That’s the funny thing...”

Before he could launch into his story, Dean returned with first aid and a black t-shirt. He made to grab (manhandle) Lucifer’s wing, but the Devil lurched it out of his grasp with a wince. “Ah, no touching, please. They’re… sensitive.”

Dean simply stared—or rather, glared—at Lucifer before dropping the first aid kit and piece of clothing onto the floor with a muffled bang and shoving it in the fallen angel’s direction with his boot. Grumbling under his breath, Lucifer retrieved it from the floor. He’d like to believe there was much less wincing and hissing involved in the process than there actually was, but alas.

“So,” Lucifer began, fixing his injured wing in the most comfortable position possible in the little chair, “my story… I assume you fellows know about the Fall and everything, so pardon me if I skip the boring bits.” He launched into an abbreviated tale of his “holiday” from Hell, pausing as he drew closer to the current timeline. He shifted his attention from his now-bandaged wing to the brothers watching him with hawk-like stares. “No comments so far? Questions?”

“Just one—why are you  _ here? _ ” Dean interjected the accusatory query.

“Patience. I’m getting to that.” Lucifer licked his dry lips and pulled the shirt over his head after folding his wings into another plane (an action which garnered hilarious expressions of surprise from Sam and Dean). “I had just left the hospital with the full intent of going to the detective’s house, but some imbecile decided to knock me upside the head. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a hellish desert wearing nothing but my trousers and new wings. And, to top things off, I’m no longer even on  _ my  _ world.”

The brothers deadpanned. “So what you’re telling us,” Sam started slowly, “is you’re actually the Devil, but you’re not  _ our  _ Devil?”

“Precisely. At least, that’s what I think. This entire bloody thing is my father’s fault, if you ask me.” Lucifer shifted in his seat, studying the two brothers. “I never got to ask before, with you lot shooting me and all, but how is all this,” he waved a hand at himself, “not driving you mental?”

Again, Sam and Dean did their silent conversation thing, but this time, Lucifer was able to gather what they were debating.  _ Do we trust him? _

“I don’t lie, by the way,” he felt the need to interject.

Finally, the conversation ended and both turned back to the present Devil. “We’re hunters,” Sam explained. “Killing supernatural creatures, saving the people they attack. Dealing with the Devil is part of the job description.”

“I got just one last question—why exactly are you here, at the bunker?” Dean still looked like he wanted to murder Lucifer.

“There’s a nephilim loitering on your doorstep. Following that lead seemed like a good idea (at the time).”

Sam cast Dean a glance. “Jack’s back.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Dean replied. “Go tell him where we are before he breaks something or wanders off.”

Sam rolled his eyes and holstered his gun before leaving the room. This time, Lucifer was left with Dean, and he had all the intention to grill him (or at least sate his curiosity a little).

“Dean, isn’t it?”

The shorter brother didn’t reply, shooting him a nasty look. The hunter’s gun was no longer pointed at Lucifer, but it was still clasped in his hand.

“Did past me kick your dog or something?”

Still, Dean didn’t answer, and Lucifer was getting tired of being ignored. He huffed and shifted, gathering Dean’s attention. “Right… now, what is it you desire, hm?”

Dean met him with a look of confusion, only the faint glazing of his eyes foretelling that Lucifer’s mojo was still working. “What?”

“What secrets are you hiding? C’mon, everyone’s got some…” Lucifer rose, albeit a bit cautiously. He wasn’t ready to be reacquainted with another bullet. The hunter made no move to shoot him, however. Lucifer strode closer until he was nose to nose with the man.

Dean was fighting against his charm, he could tell. The man’s jaw was twitching with denial as the words bubbled to his mouth. The struggle seemed to exhaust him, though, and when the secret burst forth, he looked weary beyond his years. “I just… I just want Cas back… I just want him back…”

“Oh, well…” Lucifer took a step back, letting Dean collect himself. He was straying into the dangerous territory that was human emotions, and there was no way in hell he was willingly getting into that mess. The room fell into an awkward silence after that, and it was thankfully broken by the sound of footsteps and Sam’s voice.

The tall hunter appeared in the dungeon’s doorway, accompanied by a small-statured human, or… Lucifer did a double take; the feeling that was wriggled its way into his head was going mad, and he struggled against it to think straight. Not a small human. Nephilim.

“Jack,” Sam was saying, talking to the abomination. He sighed and waved a hand at the Devil. “This is Lucifer Morningstar.”

Lucifer met Jack’s eyes and was confronted with such an intense feeling of power he took a step back. Likewise, the nephilim’s eyes took on a golden sheen.

“My… father?” Jack said lowly, confusion and anger twisting his face. As if the tension was palpable, Sam got between the two, his back facing Lucifer.

“No, Jack. It—it’s fine. He’s not your father… well, not technically. See, yeah, he’s Lucifer, but not from this dimension. He’s from… another place.” Sam’s words were hasty, but they seemed to calm the power that was emanating from the nephilim.

“Father?” Lucifer muttered. He was certain he was no one’s father (or at least, he hoped not; he was quite vigilant when it came to using protection). He looked to Dean (who was still just quietly observing) for answers.

“Our Lucifer took the President as a vessel and managed to knock someone up.” Dean explained with a vague shrug. (Not that the explanation made the situation any less confusing.)

“What?” Lucifer couldn’t keep the disbelieving laugh out of his tone.

The hunter waved a hand at him that meant  _ ‘I’ll explain it later.’ _

By the time their little exchange had finished, Sam and Jack had ended their own conversation. Jack had stepped past Sam and was eyeing Lucifer with his head at a tilt. “Why are you here?”

The nephilim reminded Lucifer of a bird (and of himself; he had imitated the gesture before, much to his chagrin). “That’s what I would like to know. My being here is your fault, I’m quite certain. Why else would I have been drawn here?”

“I—I don’t know…” Jack looked perturbed by the question, and he dropped his eyes.

“Well, you must know something. My father doesn’t do anything without a plan. That’s his whole spiel, isn’t it? Obviously, I was sent here to fix this mess you humans have made.” All of his audience’s eyes were on him. Sensing their confusion, Lucifer plowed on. “You can’t just send a celestial being to another universe and not expect cosmic consequences, can you?” He wasn’t sure why it made sense (he wasn’t even completely following his own logic), but for some reason, it explained his predicament. “So… I fix this fuck up and I get to go back to my dimension.  _ Ta da _ , everyone’s happy.”

Sam and Dean were still eyeing him like he was slightly insane (he was quite familiar with the expression), but at least the nephilim seemed to be following along.

“Right… so you need to do what exactly?” (Damn these humans and their slow minds!)

Lucifer sighed. Whatever otherworldly voice was whispering the answers in his ear hadn’t gotten that far. “I have utterly no idea.”

“Great.” Dean holstered his gun and strode out of the room.

Sam stared after him before looking back to the Devil. “We’ll figure it out.” He looked to the nephilim that still lingered nearby. “Jack, you mind setting up a room for Lucifer?”

“Sure.” Casting a last glance at Lucifer, Jack left as well.

Once more, Lucifer was left in the company of the long-haired hunter. The man in question crossed his arms and shifted uneasily. Sam seemed much more uncertain without his two companions. Lucifer arched an eyebrow and tucked his hands into his ruined pant’s pockets. “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” It was a statement, a rhetorical question. The answer was obviously yes.

Sam held his gaze, his hazel eyes a myriad of unreadable thoughts. “We’ve… allied with Lucifer—our Lucifer—in the past. It… never turned out well.”

“Why? The sourpuss not cooperative?” Lucifer grinned.

Sam’s jaw set, and his eyes took on the sheen that Chloe’s got when she talked about her father. “He killed our friend.” The grin disappeared from Lucifer’s face, and he schooled his features to display a stoic sadness (he didn’t completely have a grip on emotions, but enough time with Chloe and fragile humans taught him that people didn’t react well to jokes about the dead). “And he took our mother with him to this other dimension.” Sam continued on, his eyes gaining a faraway look. Whatever memories plagued him, he shook off and fixed his stare back upon the Devil. “Jack can’t open the portal again by himself, but…”

“But maybe I can.” Lucifer finished the statement. “So you want a favor: I help save your mother.” He read between the lines. He could do favors; he understood favors.

“Yeah.” Sam’s shoulders relaxed. “Just, don’t tell Dean.”

“Ooh, a secret favor. Right-o.” The grin returned to Lucifer’s face. “I will be expecting retribution on this secret favor, though.” That was how favors worked, after all.

“Of course.” Sam nodded slightly and exited the room. He paused in the doorway and looked back to Lucifer; he rubbed at his neck with a nervous air. “You, uh… do you eat?”

In response, Lucifer’s stomach growled mightily, and he was reminded of his raging hunger (and thirst). “Yes! What a preposterous question. Some whiskey would be wonderful, as well. Or even just a glass of cold water.”

His answer managed to pull a flickering smile on to Sam’s face. “C’mon. There’s food and water in the kitchen.” The hunter started up the hallway, and the fallen angel trailed after him.

* * *

 

Jack was watching as Lucifer inhaled a turkey on rye, his head tilted in the permanent angle it seemed to live in. Lucifer eyed the nephilim in return, slurping at a glass of water. “D’ya mind?” He set the glass down with a harsh clink, making Jack jump slightly.

“I—” The nephilim looked abashed and uncertain. He averted his eyes, studying the floor with a sudden intensity.

Lucifer snorted and finished his sandwich with the gusto that only a starving man (or Devil) possessed. He continued to study the nephilim over the rim of his glass; Jack had sat down across from him midway through his meal and proceeded to stare at him as he ate. The nephilim reminded Lucifer of himself more than he’d like to admit; or rather, he reminded Lucifer of who had used to be, before he had met Chloe: naive to humanity, curious, childlike, as if every experience was new and exciting.

Lucifer shook away the thoughts and set his plate in the sink. He chugged the rest of the water before joining the glass with the plate. Sam had disappeared after giving him his sandwich, and Dean had yet to reappear from wherever he had slunk off to. Peeking his head out of the kitchen, Lucifer looked up and down the hallway. Vaguely, he could hear sounds coming from the right, so he set off in that direction.

He didn’t make it more than a few steps before he made out the shuffling of footsteps following him. Jack, the nephilim. The little brat was still intent on shadowing his every step. He was like Chloe’s spawn, Trixie, but without any of the cheeky charm. Lucifer rounded on the abomination, his eyes glowing with hellfire and his teeth bared. Unbidden, his wings flared into existence and scrunched up in a threatening pose in the tiny hallway.  _ “Stop it!”  _ He growled, his voice low and feral.

Jack froze; he balked and stumbled over himself in his haste to back away from the defensive Devil. He threw a hand up, and Lucifer felt a rush of power emanate from him. The nephilim’s eyes glowed with golden light, and Lucifer was shoved backwards into the wall. His wings crumpled around him, and the sudden movement tore at the bandage wrapped around his injured wing. He winced and swallowed another growl. Lucifer pulled himself into a semi-sitting position and eyed the nephilim with renewed wariness. Jack was watching him with the same expression; his hand was lowered, but his eyes still reflected golden light.

Apparently, their little confrontation had caused quite a commotion, because Sam and Dean came tearing around the corner with guns drawn. The duo lowered the firearms when they saw the scene spread out before them, but their expressions were hard set.

“Jack.” Sam’s voice was terse as he called to the nephilim. “What happened?”

Jack looked close to tears, and he hugged his hand to his chest, his other hand picking at his knuckles. “I…”

Lucifer pulled himself upright and brushed himself off. His wings winked out of view, and he glanced sheepishly at the hunters. “My fault, boys.” He wasn’t sure why he was taking responsibility for the nephilim’s reaction; he never took responsibility for a situation unless he was actually the one at fault. Maybe spending so much time with the detective had rubbed some of her personality off on him. “I… startled him. I didn’t know he would react like that.”

The brothers still looked a little uncertain, but they slowly put their guns away. Dean muttered something under his breath about annoying sons of bitches and walked back the way he had come. Sam glanced at Lucifer and went to Jack. He laid a comforting hand on the nephilim’s shoulder. “Hey, you alright?” The soft words were directed to Jack, not the Devil who had been slammed into a wall. Lucifer somehow felt as though he had broken Sam’s brittle trust in him.

Lucifer shifted and cleared his throat. Sam looked to him, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Is there a place I could rest?”

The hunter was silent a moment. “Just a bit farther down the hall. First door on the right.”

Lucifer dipped his head and shuffled off towards the indicated room. The room displayed the same decor as the rest of the bunker. It was mostly barren save for a few shelves, a dresser, and a bed. To the side, there was another door that undoubtedly led to a bathroom. Suddenly, a hot shower sounded really nice. Lucifer stripped off his clothes (he needed to find some new pants, he noted; his were torn to shreds) and stepped into the shower.

As the hot water pelted down around him, he allowed his wings to unfurl. The shower was large, but nowhere near large enough to house his wings comfortably. A single twitch sent them bumping against the cold tiles. Nevertheless, he let the steaming water wash away the remaining sand and blood. With the bandage removed from his wing, he could tell that the bullet wound was mostly healed, but his sudden meeting with the hard wall had caused the offended skin to tear a little. The multitude of white feathers would be hell to dry, but getting them clean was worth it. After scrubbing his fingers through his wet curls one last time, he stepped free of the shower. He did his best to towel off the appendages, but they continued to drip onto the bathroom floor.

Lucifer sighed and tugged on a silk robe he found hanging in the bathroom’s closet. The action required him to send his wings away to pull the robe over his shoulders, and he could feel the cold water dripping off of them even after they were gone. Once the robe was on, the wings were summoned again. Disappearing them to a separate plane was handy, but they remained in stasis there; if he didn’t let them air out in the visible plane, they would stay wet indefinitely, and that would just be a pain in the ass.

He threw himself down on the bed and sank into the sheets. It didn’t compare to his bed with its Egyptian cotton at all, but it felt heavenly to his bruised body. Against Jack, he felt as mortal as he did around Chloe (hopefully it was just because the nephilim was an extremely powerful celestial being; he was certainly no miracle). Lucifer felt uncharacteristically tired, and the lull of sleep was calling his name. He wasn’t even bothered by his soggy wings staining the sheets with water as he drifted off into oblivion.

* * *

 

The smell of coffee tickled Lucifer’s nose and yanked him from the entrapment of deep sleep. In a groggy state of half-awake, he tried to roll over. Instead, he was pinned down by two enormous wings which were completely asleep (right; those were still there). The Devil suppressed a groan and sat up, stretching. His back and shoulders popped with a satisfying rush of endorphins, but his wings remained limp. Slowly, they began to wake up, but the blood-deficient muscles protested with the feeling of pins and needles. Lucifer grumbled under his breath and tucked the feathery nuisances out of sight. (At least they were dry.)

Lucifer searched through the drawers and closet for any new, fresh clothing to wear, but they were empty save for a few moth-eaten scraps. Begrudgingly, he put yesterday’s clothing back on. Outside the room’s door, however, he found a t-shirt and pair of worn jeans neatly folded. On the top was a scrawled note:  _ You need some new clothes. These should fit. -SW. _ So the taller Winchester didn’t completely hate him; that was good to know. Lucifer glanced up and down the empty hallway before retrieving the clothing from the floor and putting it on.

Jeans and a tee weren’t really his thing, but they were better than tatty slacks and an old shirt. The t-shirt hung off him a bit, but other than that, they appeared to fit fine. Lucifer cast himself a glance in the bathroom mirror (then he decided he’d much rather not look at himself and instead find out where the delicious scent of coffee was coming from).

He threaded his fingers through his unruly curls as he plodded towards the kitchen, trying to get his hair to at least go in one direction. The curls persisted, however, sticking up in odd directions.

Lucifer slowed as he reached the bunker’s kitchen. He was hesitant to walk in, and he was faced with an emotion he hadn’t fully experienced yet: apprehension. The trio that was Sam, Dean, and Jack seemed almost like a family, albeit with a few disagreements and squabbles. He was an outsider, lost and not to be completely trusted. Not even a silver tongue and devilish charm could make him be accepted.

Sucking in a breath, Lucifer entered the kitchen (because what was he doing loitering outside like a lost puppy? He was Lucifer fucking Morningstar). Instantly, the conversations ceased. Dean looked up at him from a pan of sizzling pancake batter, and Sam from the coffee maker. Only Jack’s eyes didn’t meet his; the nephilim was absorbed in shoving a syrup-soaked strawberry around the circumference of his half-eaten pancake.

Lucifer forced a flashy grin onto his face, doing his best to ignore the piercing looks he was getting. “Good morning!” Dean’s attention flicked from his face to his borrowed clothes. (Lucifer wondered if he recognized them as Sam’s.) The elder Winchester merely grunted in response to his greeting. Sam returned it without the ‘good’, and Jack mumbled it to his breakfast.

The air was tense before Lucifer decided to sit down at the table. Jack shot a glance at him and finally stabbed the strawberry with his fork. The nephilim nibbled at it while watching the Devil. Lucifer sat there absorbed in his thoughts until Sam walked over and sat a steaming cup of coffee beside him. Lucifer looked up at him with mild surprise. He took the mug and stared at it for a moment. “Thank you…” He said after a thought. “For the clothes, as well.”

Sam gave him a small smile. “ ‘Welcome.”

The kitchen fell into silence again, and the only sound was from the sizzling of the cooking pancakes. Lucifer didn’t feel a need to make any noises, lest he get more withering glares from Dean. Instead, he sipped at his coffee; the caffeine cleared his mind of lingering sleepiness, and he began to sort through the chaos that had been yesterday. So, his wings were back, he had been transported to another world, and everything he knew was different. A stray thought wormed its way into his conscience, and he voice the question aloud in Sam’s direction. “What did you mean by vessel?”

“What?” The younger Winchester had been engrossed in his breakfast. Confusion was written across his face, and his brow furrowed.

“Yesterday, you said your Devil took the President as a vessel. What’d you mean by that?”

“That’s how angels and demons work. If they don’t have a mortal vessel, they’re just—‘spirits’. I thought—” Sam broke off. His gaze, which had been trained on Lucifer’s face, drifted to study Lucifer himself. “Are you saying you don’t have a vessel?”

“Nope. Had this face since the day I was created.” (And it was the only face he had, now that his Devil face was gone.)

Sam looked ready to ask more questions; his curiosity had been piqued, but Dean chose at that moment to sit down at the table beside his brother.

The shorter Winchester brother shoved a plate of pancakes across the table towards Lucifer. “Sam says you actually eat, so—here.” He squared his shoulders and dug into his food.

Lucifer stared at Dean for a moment. Finally, he shrugged to himself and took a bite of his proffered breakfast. Contrary to the man’s appearance and attitude, he could cook an excellent pancake.

Awkwardness settled once more into the kitchen as everyone ate and no one spoke a word. Sam and Dean shared a few glances, but beyond that, there was no communication of any kind. After a while, Jack stood up and disappeared into the many halls of the bunker. Lucifer was tempted to follow him, but after remembering what had happened the last time the two of them were left alone, he thought better of it.

His own pancakes disappeared quickly, and he gulped down the rest of his coffee (he may or may not have burnt his tongue a little) to escape the judging eyes of the Brothers Two. The Devil shot a hasty compliments to the chef at Dean before disposing of his plate and mug. He could feel the pair’s eyes on him the entire time, and despite himself, he felt a flush of… something. Embarrassment? Shame? No, that couldn’t be right… Nevertheless, as soon as his utensils put away, he hightailed it out of the room.

Low voices sounded from the kitchen as soon as he was out of the doorway. Lucifer loitered outside in the hallway, straining his ears to hear what they were saying.

Sam started talking about researching something. A case? Dean’s voice began, louder than Sam’s had been. “So, what? You just wanna leave the Devil and a nephilim together while we go off on a hunt? Remember what happened last time they were left alone together? I’d rather the bunker  _ not  _ be turned into a celestial warzone.”

“It was an accident, Dean. Lucifer said he hadn’t known—”

“What, you trust this asshole now?”

Sam’s sigh was audible from the hallway. “Dean, I—no, I don’t trust him. I just think it would do us some good to just work a case by ourselves.”

“Us?” Skepticism was rich in the elder brother’s tone.

“ _ You. _ It would do you some good.” Suddenly, Sam’s voice dropped to where Lucifer couldn’t make out what he was saying.

There was a moment of silence before Dean’s voice snapped, “Fine. Go round up Lucifer and Jack and make them play nice.”

There was more silence before the sound of a chair scraping across the floor echoed from the room. Lucifer realized the brothers likely wouldn’t take kindly to him listening in on their conversation. He crept back to the room he had been given as quietly as possible and tried to act like he had been there the entire time. Not a minute later after he had situated himself on his bed did Sam’s head come peeking around the door. “Yes?” Lucifer asked, even though he knew full well why Sam was there.

“C’mon. We need to have a chat.”

Lucifer feigned ignorance as he unfolded himself from the bed and trailed after Sam. The Winchester led him to the library where Jack was seated at a table reading a book. The nephilim lifted his head when the two entered; his expression grew nervous when he saw Lucifer. The Devil couldn’t help but mirror the feelings.

Sam indicated for Lucifer to sit in the chair opposite of Jack. Obliging, Lucifer settled into the seat and folded his hands across his chest. “Right, what’s this you want to talk about? Where’s your brother?”

“Dean’s busy.” Sam ran his tongue over his bottom lip and focused most of his attention on Jack. “We found a case.” That drew the nephilim’s full attention; instantly, his entire face brightened. “But we think we should handle it alone. It’ll be quick, and we’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“But—” Jack looked ready to protest, but Sam cut him off before he could start.

“It’ll be easier this way, Jack.”  _ Safer,  _ Lucifer, heard, and he was pretty sure Jack heard it too. Jack looked crestfallen and a touch angry. It was probably a trick of the light, but Lucifer thought he saw a glimmer of gold in the nephilim’s eyes. “You can practice harnessing your powers.” Sam’s gaze flicked to Lucifer. “Maybe Lucifer can help.”

Scoffing aloud probably wasn’t the best plan of action, but Lucifer couldn’t help himself. Him? Teach someone? The thought was absurd. Sam sent him a hard glare, and Lucifer did his best to look innocent.

“Just… don’t leave the bunker, don’t destroy the place, and don’t kill each other.” Sam’s voice strained on his last few words, and his expression said that he was regretting leaving them alone.

“We’ll be good little children, won’t we, Jack?” Lucifer grinned and looked across the table at the nephilim. Jack didn’t seem to share his sentiments; he dipped his head and muttered an, “Okay.”

Sam eyed them both before nodding once and leaving. Lucifer watched him until he disappeared. His attention was drawn back to Jack by the scuffing of book leather on wood and the shuffling of pages. The nephilim was engrossing himself back in his book.

Wordlessly, Lucifer rose and meandered through the many bookshelves that were spread through the small library. Different titles jumped out at him. Some were in different languages, and some radiated ancient power. Lucifer’s fingertips danced across their spines as his gaze examined each one. He finally stopped and plucked an old, heavy volume from a top shelf. It was in Sanskrit, a language Lucifer hadn’t read in a long time. He flipped through a couple of the first pages before deciding it was worth the read.

Jack didn’t say anything as he returned to the table and plunked back down into his seat. The spine of his book creaked as he pried it open, and plumes of dust arose from the yellowed pages. The story the book told wasn’t magical in tone, but it was still an enthralling tale. It was so enthralling that Lucifer stayed still reading it for hours. He wasn’t aware of how much time had passed until he tried to straighten his posture, and his stiff back muscles screamed in protest. The little clock on the wall read 12:47, and Lucifer realized he hadn’t moved for nearly four hours.

He lifted his head towards Jack and found the nephilim missing. Had he really been so absent-minded that he hadn’t heard him leave? Lucifer stood and stretched languidly, his thoughts whirling as he did so. Where had the little miscreant wandered off to? The halls of the bunker were labyrinthian, and Lucifer had no desire to search through them all.

Lucifer strode towards the one he was familiar with—the one that led to his room and the kitchen. “O, nephilim? Jack?” He called down the passageway. His voice echoed back towards him, and it nearly muffled the clattering sound. Bingo. Farther down the hall was a room much like his own; Jack’s, he presumed. The door was ajar, but he knocked all the same. He didn’t want to be shoved into a wall again by a startled nephilim.

Jack was seated at a small desk with a pencil grasped firmly in his clenched fist. His wide eyes were locked on Lucifer. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other. Lucifer shifted and cleared his throat. “Lunch?” He offered, not entirely sure why he was offering. Jack gave a jerky nod and set the pencil aside. Lucifer made his way to the kitchen, and the nephilim tailed him.

The Winchester’s kitchen was quite basic, especially when compared to the kitchen he had had in LUX (had—it was still there in his own dimension, Lucifer reminded himself). However, despite the quaintness of it, it boasted a variety of food (not all of which was fresh) in the fridge and cupboards.

“Anything in particular you’d like? Soufflé, filet mignon, chicken cordon bleu?”

Instead of answering his question, Jack sat himself at the table. “You can cook?”

Lucifer huffed. “You can’t?” The kitchen didn’t have the ingredients for a two-star restaurant, much less a five-star, so the Devil settled for macaroni and cheese. He knew Trixie would eat anything he made, and Jack was similar to her, so maybe he’d do the same? In his musings, he nearly missed Jack shaking his head in answer to his (rhetorical) question.

“Nobody has taught me.”

“What are you, a child?” The water in his pot began to boil, and the dried noodles made a sharp  _ shshing  _ sound as Lucifer poured them in.

“I  _ am  _ only a few weeks old.”

Lucifer turned to face Jack, deadpanning. “How—? Right, nephilim…” He turned back to his pasta and drained it before adding the cheese and a bit of butter. It was simple and came from a box, but he could still try to make it taste good, couldn’t he?

His theory about Jack’s taste in food was proved correct when he offered a bowl of macaroni to the nephilim; Jack took it without complaint and even gave him a soft smile. Lucifer wasn’t sure how to react to the smile, so he opted to ignore it and grabbed his own bowl. He sat down, once more, opposite of the nephilim. For a long stretch of time, the only noises were the clinking of spoons against ceramic.

It wasn’t until both were nearly done did Jack speak. “You have wings,” he observed.

Lucifer’s head shot up; he wondered what had brought about such a strange subject. “Yes…” he said warily. He hadn’t given his wings much thought because of his current situation, but if he was still back home in his world, his new wings would’ve been shorn off the moment he got back to LUX. “Is that really surprising? I—” His voice died in his throat.  _ Am an angel _ , he nearly said. “Was an angel.” He conceded.

“You were an angel?”

“Past-tense, yes. I was, right up until my Father decided to shove me out because I spoke against him.”

“God?”

“Yes _. God _ .” Lucifer said with a little more conviction than necessary; his words nearly came out a feral growl. His poor spoon had nearly been bent in half in his tense grip. He relaxed and took a breath, dropping the spoon into the bowl. (Hopefully the Winchesters wouldn’t notice that one of their spoons was a little crooked…)

Jack had snapped his mouth shut at the Devil’s tone and was silent as he ate the rest of his lunch. Lucifer considered him, his fingers tapping the side of his bowl. His feathers were still ruffled (quite literally) from their parental conversation, and a thousand snarky and biting comments were on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed and looked down at the remains of his own lunch.

“What about your father, hm?” Lucifer schooled his tone to be nearly flat. Emotionless. “The other  _ me _ . From what I hear, he’s nowhere near as charming as yours truly.” He allowed a small smirk to curl his lips.

Jack met his gaze. “I never met him. He’s my father, but he’s not my family.” The nephilim’s expression became a touch happier. “Sam and Dean are. Sam’s helping me to control my powers so I don’t hurt people. Or he’s trying, at least. Dean doesn’t really like me, but that’s just because he’s hurting.”

Lucifer stared at Jack, his jaw working. For a being only a few weeks old, he was pretty wise. Standing, Lucifer collected their bowls. Much to his surprise, Jack joined him at the sink. “What’re you doing?”

“Helping,” Jack supplied simply, flashing Lucifer another soft smile. He said it as if it explained everything. Maybe it did. Maybe it meant he would help Lucifer save the Winchester’s mother, as the Devil had promised. Maybe it meant he would help him get home. Maybe… Maybe he was reading too far into the situation. Lucifer gave his head an imperceptible shake to clear his thoughts and instead focused on making sure the dishes were spotless.

* * *

 

For the next two hours, Lucifer and Jack spent their time in the library, reading as they had been before lunch. The air was lacking the tension it had been before (and this time, Lucifer decided to sit in one of the plusher, more comfortable seats). Reaching the end of his story, Lucifer closed his book with a snap. The noise made Jack jump slightly, and the kid looked up from the laptop he was perched behind. (After growing tired of his book, Jack had retrieved Sam’s laptop and said he was going to do some research. Had it been anyone else, Lucifer would’ve suspected he was watching porn, but he doubted the nephilim even knew what porn was, which was a disappointment in itself.)

The Devil put the book back in its proper spot and began to peruse the shelves once more. He stopped in front of a sword on display atop one of the shelves. Curiosity and mischief were in his mind, and he plucked the blade from its stand. The edge was sharp and polished, and the hilt sat perfectly weighted in his hand. He gave it a few experimental flicks and grabbed another sword from a wall display.

Jack was watching him as he reemerged from the maze of bookcases; the nephilim’s brow was drawn up in confusion. “What’re you doing?”

“You need to learn to control your powers. I’m teaching you.” At least, he assumed he was going to. (He hadn’t ever purposefully tried to teach someone something before; it was going to be a learning experience for the both of them.) He slid the other sword across the table to Jack.

Jack looked uncertain, but he grasped the sword nevertheless and stood.

“Right… Come here. Too much table in the way over there.” Lucifer beckoned the kid towards a clear spot in the center of the room.

“I don’t understand how this will help me.” Jack’s shoulders were squared defensively, and the blade hung loosely in his hand.

Lucifer sighed. “I—I never had to learn how to control my powers. It was instinctual to me on how to utilize them.” He licked his lips, debating his next words. “ _ However _ , I did have quite the temper when I was small. It was always getting me into all kinds of trouble.”  _ Still did _ , the thought came to his mind unbidden, but he shoved it away. “So, my brother, Amenadiel, gave me a sword and told me that if I could disarm him, he would take the blame for me the next time I got in trouble.”

Jack merely blinked owlishly at the Devil, his grip on the sword a bit tighter.

“Of course, I saw it as a grand deal, so I agreed and rushed him. I was stronger than him (still am) and could easily overpower him in a brawl. But the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back and Amenadiel was standing over me with my sword in his hand.” Lucifer continued, occasionally gesturing with the tip of his blade. “Then the bastard made me learn how to sword fight until I could disarm him. I learned two things then: not to trust Amenadiel with deals, and how to control myself in a fight.”

“You want to teach me how to sword fight.” Jack said quietly, looking at the sword in his hand.

Lucifer gave another sigh. His entire story had been lost on the nephilim. “Yes.” He acquiesced. “Now, c’mon. Disarm me. Ah—with your sword.”

Jack lowered his free hand he had started to raise. Instead, he hefted the sword and stepped towards the fallen angel; he aimed a clumsy slash at Lucifer’s side, which Lucifer easily dodged.

In an instant, the Devil was upon him. Lucifer knocked the sword out of Jack’s hand with ease and placed the tip of his blade at Jack’s throat. “Keep your grip on the hilt firm but not rigid. And keep your wrist flexible, not a noodle.”

The afternoon progressed into the evening with the scene in the library on repeat. Each time, however, Jack got closer to knocking the sword from Lucifer’s grasp. The kid was a fast learner. A few times, the sword blades met skin, but they simply glanced off Lucifer, and Jack promised that he felt no pain when he got cut (which Lucifer felt inclined to believe when he watched an accidental scratch heal before his eyes).

It was nearly nine o’clock before Lucifer called for a rest. He wasn’t tired per se, but the kid had given him a run for his money, and he still wasn’t fully recovered from yesterday’s events. Jack seemed to share his sentiments and dropped into a nearby chair. He set his sword on the table beside him and rubbed at his sore wrists.

Lucifer collected the swords and returned them to their display stands. He casted Jack a glance before striding off to the kitchen. He was too weary to make anything intricate, but he found a can of tomato soup buried in the cupboard (surprisingly, it wasn’t from the 1950’s) and set it to cook in a pan on the stove.

He returned to the library with two bowls of steaming soup and found Jack asleep with his head pressed against the table. The Devil suppressed a soft chuckle at the kid’s sleeping expression and set the bowls on the table. Cautiously, he prodded Jack’s shoulder.

Much to Lucifer’s surprise, he didn’t wake with a start. He lifted his head groggily and stared at Lucifer with a blank expression. After a moment, Jack seemed to realize where he was and what was going on. He scrubbed a sleeved hand over his face and eyed the soup hungrily. Lucifer started to push a bowl over to him, but Jack held up a hand.

“Wait, I want to try something.”

Lucifer had a pretty good idea of what ‘try something’ meant, so he picked up his own bowl and stepped away from the table for good measure.

Jack’s face morphed into an expression of intense concentration. He held his hand out towards the bowl, and slowly, it began to inch its way across the table towards him. It made it about halfway before Jack dropped his hand. Frustration wormed its way onto his face. He reached across the table and dragged the bowl the rest of the way to him.

“That’s an improvement, isn’t it?” Lucifer decided it safe enough to sit down. He propped his feet up on the chair beside him and sipped at his soup.

“Yes…” Jack answered begrudingly.

Lucifer said nothing else, eating his soup in silence. The kid did the same, and he never raised his gaze. Lucifer cleared his throat to get his attention. “I don’t usually say this, especially to a nephilim, but—I think you are good. And I know what good looks like; I know a miracle.” He gave a wry smile at the thought of Chloe. “And I know you will learn how to control your powers because you are good, and…” (And he was rambling; excellent.)

He dropped his head towards his bowl, embarrassed at showing such sentiment.

“Thank you.” Jack’s reply was muffled but sincere, and Lucifer could hear the soft smile painting his expression.

Later, when Lucifer was lying on his bed, sleep evaded him. His restless thoughts flitted between Chloe, home, his wings, Jack, the Winchesters, and his eminent problem. He rolled onto his side and pressed his eyes shut. Normally, he wouldn’t care if he slept or not, but he was exhausted from the previous day’s ordeal and his sparring with Jack. He would rather not be groggy the next day and have to run solely on caffeine.

Sleep finally did find him, but he dreamed (he never dreamed!) and it was the opposite of restful. It was dark, and the shadows grasped at him like tortured souls of Hell. In the distance, he could see glimpses of her—Chloe—calling to him for help. He never could reach her, though, and if he got too close, the shadows dragged him down and began whispering nasty things in his ears. Finally, he managed to shake them off and draw near to Chloe. ‘Chloe!’ He called, reaching out a hand to her. She turned, and her joyous expression morphed to one of horror and disgust. She jerked her hand away and stumbled backwards. ‘What—what are you…?’ A cold fear settled in the pit of Lucifer’s stomach, and he looked down at his outstretched hand; scaly, red, burnt skin met his gaze, and he didn’t need a mirror to feel the hellfire emanating from his eyes and face.

‘No—no, Chloe, wait!’ He made a mad grab for her and managed to ensnare her wrist. She shrieked when he caught her and began to struggle out of his grasp. ‘Let go of me, you monster!’ Monster. That word struck Lucifer like a stone, and he let go of Chloe’s wrist in shock. Free, Chloe turned and disappeared once more into the shadows. Lucifer dove after her, his heart thundering in his chest. He finally caught up to her in a small clearing in the shadows; Chloe had her back to him, and she was facing a towering shadowy form. Before Lucifer even had the chance to speak, the shadow struck at Chloe, and a bloody sword tip was thrust through her small body.

‘CHLOE!’ Lucifer tore his throat raw with his scream, and he surged forward to kneel beside her fallen form. ‘No no no no…’ He held her hand, not caring that his was still a mess of burnt flesh. Chloe drew a shuddering breath as blood oozed from the stab wound in her chest. Her attention focused on Lucifer, and intangible fear entered her eyes. ‘This is your fault… How—how could you do this to me…?’ Her breath wheezed out of her chest as the light in her eyes died. ‘No!’ A sob racked Lucifer. ‘No…’ He gripped her hand tighter as it grew unbearably cold, willing for life to fill her once more.

The shadows whirled around him, whispering jabs and taunts in his ears. ‘Look what you’ve done…’ One hissed. The shadows plucked at him painfully, and white feathers stained red at the quill rained down around him. ‘This is what you deserve, Monster…’ A feral snarl built in Lucifer’s chest, and he let it out; the shadows scattered at the inhuman roar he released, and everything disappeared except for Chloe’s blood on his trembling hands.

Lucifer woke in a cold sweat and hugged his shaking fingers close to his chest. It took him a moment to realize that at some point during the night, his wings had unfurled, and they were draped over him. He pulled them tighter around himself and took comfort in their familiar weight. His heart pounded in his ears, and his face was streaked with half-dried tears. He was a mess.

He laid curled up on his bed for an intermittent amount of time while he regained control of himself. Finally, he sat up (his head was still pounding quite painfully) and willed his wings away. The comforting weight left him, and he almost missed it. He couldn’t stay like this all day, though. Jack would come looking for him, and there was no way in hell he was letting the kid see him like this.

Lucifer heaved himself off the bed and stumbled to the shower. He looked long enough in the mirror to note the bruises beneath his eyes but not long enough to comprehend the red scratch marks on his chest. He showered quickly, scrubbing at his hands the longest in a futile attempt to wash away Chloe’s unseen blood. As he was toweling off, his foot slipped out from under him, and his wings shot out to balance himself. The right wing’s pinions struck the mirror and shattered it into a million little shards. Great, another thing to be pissed at. With a deepthroated growl, Lucifer seized a large shard of the mirror and hurled it at the wall; it broke into even smaller pieces, tinkling to the floor.

Heaving a sigh, Lucifer sheathed his wings and swept the shards aside with his foot. He had no new clothes to wear (something Sam Winchester hadn’t thought of), so he pulled back on the wrinkled clothes from yesterday. As he left his room, he tugged his fingers through his rampant curls, but per usual, they stayed wild (and he was quite certain the Winchesters didn’t invest in any gel).

The hallway smelled like burnt food, and the smell only grew stronger as Lucifer approached the kitchen. Leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, the Devil watched Jack scrub at a crusted frying pan with a spatula. Bits of half-burnt eggs littered the counter, the stove, and the sink. And if the bunker had had functioning fire alarms, Lucifer was sure they would be blaring. It took Jack a moment to realize Lucifer was present, and the kid shot him a cheery grin. “I’m cooking.”

Lucifer couldn’t help himself; he huffed a laugh, dispelling the wisps of unease the nightmare had set in his bones. “Yes, it certainly smells like it.”

A frown settled on Jack’s face and he turned his attention back to the frying pan where more smells of smoke were arising. “They’re all burning, though. Why?”

The Devil pushed himself off the doorframe and approached Jack. He leaned past the kid and turned off the stove; grasping the pan, he set it in the sink and procured a new one from a cabinet. “Well, you’re not doing it properly. Give me an egg.”

Jack complied, thrusting an egg into Lucifer’s hand. Lucifer set the pan on a new eye and cracked the egg with practiced ease. He could feel Jack’s interest as he poured the contents of the egg into the frying pan without letting a piece of shell fall in. “There, you try.”

Eagerly, Jack grasped an egg and mimicked Lucifer’s actions. “Softer…” Lucifer breathed as the kid smacked the egg against the edge of the pan with too much force and created a sizable hole in the shell’s side. Jack cast him a glance before trying again, gently tapping around the egg’s circumference. Splitting the egg seemed to be easier for Jack, and he broke the two pieces apart without any problems. A broad smile broke across his face as he spilled the white and yolk into the pan with Lucifer’s egg.

“Right, how d’you want them? Fried? Scrambled?” Lucifer grabbed the spatula.

“Scrambled.” Jack leaned against the counter beside the stove and watched as Lucifer broke the yolks and stirred them together with the whites. Lucifer turned the eye down and began to flip the egg bits until they were nicely congealed. He turned the eye off and grabbed the salt and pepper shakers, sprinkling the spices into the eggs.

“There. Scrambled eggs.” The Devil dished their breakfast evenly onto two plates and set the pan in the sink atop the crusty one.

Jack sat down at the table and Lucifer sat opposite of him. They ate in silence, but it wasn’t as awkward as yesterday’s breakfast or lunch had been. After finishing his eggs, Lucifer made himself a cup of coffee; he nearly inhaled his first cup, not caring that the hot liquid scalded his tongue and lips. By his second cup, he was feeling more awake and more at ease. He had thought about giving Jack some coffee, but the kid was already so lively, he’d probably spontaneously combust with caffeine in his system.

Again, Jack was watching him from across the table. Lucifer took a sip of his coffee before speaking. “Y’know, most people consider it rude to stare.”

Jack averted his gaze hastily. “Sorry.” He mumbled.

Lucifer hummed into his mug. “S’fine.”

The kid fiddled with his fingers, glancing back at Lucifer’s face. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”

Lucifer gripped his coffee, cold fear pooling in his stomach as he recalled his nightmare. “Bad dream.” His voice was a bit croaky, and he cleared his throat to remove the huskiness.

“I heard you calling out to someone.”

Lucifer’s nails chipped at his mug, and ceramic flakes fell onto the table.

“Who’s Chloe?”

The mug made a shattering bang as Lucifer slammed it down against the table. Jack jumped, and his eyes flared golden. Still-hot coffee sloshed over the Devil’s fingers, and bits of ceramic crumbled under his grip. “ _ Shit… _ ” He hissed and stood, shaking coffee droplets off his hands. Lucifer grabbed a dishrag that hung by the sink and sopped up the coffee before it could drip onto the floor. “ _ Fucking hell… _ ” He growled and gathered up the mug pieces in the rag. He tossed the entire bundle in the trash; he could get the Winchesters a new rag later.

When he came out of his revery, Lucifer noticed that Jack had stood up as well and was eyeing him warily. “She’s—someone.” He said in answer to Jack’s question. The kid said nothing as Lucifer left the kitchen, leaving him to clean up the mess.

Lucifer found an old bottle of scotch hidden away in the library, and he brought it with him back to his room. Once inside, he settled himself on his bed and uncorked the decanter. He took a long draught of the scotch and leaned his head back, letting the alcohol burn a fiery course down his throat.

Why did he dream? Did he have to dream? Dreams were shit. He didn’t want to dream.

Lucifer spent the entire morning in his room, mulling over his thoughts and flashes of his dream. He was sure Jack had come by once; a knock had sounded on the door, but the kid didn’t try to open it even though it was unlocked. The scotch lasted a long while, but it eventually ran dry. After, he was left with a bitter taste in the back of his throat and a too-empty decanter.

The clock on the wall read half past eleven by the time Lucifer finally got up and left the room. He nearly tripped over it, but set beside his door was a sandwich (turkey on rye bread) and a glass of water. A smile tugged at the corner of Lucifer’s mouth. He picked up the plate and glass and made his way to the library. There, he found Jack swishing a sword around; on the table beside him lay a half-eaten sandwich.

“Hello,” Lucifer called out to let himself be known. Jack stopped immediately, the sword dropping to his side. “Thank you for the sandwich.”

Jack gave him his patented innocent grins. “I thought you would be hungry.”

Lucifer sat down at the table and took a bite of his sandwich. “You guessed correctly, then.”

Setting his sword aside, Jack joined him at the table and continued to eat his sandwich. Lucifer could feel the questions burning at Jack’s mind, but the kid never voiced them. For that, Lucifer was grateful.

Once they finished their sandwiches, Lucifer grabbed a sword, and the two began sparring again. As the afternoon stretched on, the Devil found it harder to keep his sword from being wrenched out of his grasp. Right before Lucifer was going to call it quits, Jack feigned a lunge at him, which Lucifer foresaw. The Devil parried it easily, but the kid suddenly changed course and struck his sword near the hilt; Jack twisted his own blade, and the sword was ripped from Lucifer’s grasp.

Jack’s face, which had been one of concentration, broke into a sunny grin, and a triumphant laugh bubbled out of the kid.

His hand was tingling from the strike, but Lucifer smirked and grabbed his sword from the ground. “It took you long enough,” He said teasingly. He returned the sword to its stand, reminding himself that it would probably need sharpening and polishing later. As he was putting his sword away, his eye caught on a particular book. It was small and looked positively ancient, and the spine was lettered with Enochian.

Curiosity piqued, Lucifer pried the book from the shelf. Jack put his own sword away and joined Lucifer. The kid peered over his shoulder. “What is it? Can you read it?”

“It’s—Enochian, the language of the angels. Yes, I can read it. It talks about portals… rifts in space and time. Magic…” Lucifer flipped through the first few pages, muttering under his breath. Jack leaned closer, peering at the little pictures the book depicted. “It’s useless…” Lucifer grouched, putting the book back on the shelf. “Nothing about how to actually  _ open  _ a damned rift.”

The Devil stalked back to the table and grabbed their plates from lunch before heading towards the kitchen. He didn’t catch Jack slipping the little book into his pocket.

* * *

 

His and Jack’s dinner consisted of more soup (chicken noodle this time) and buttered toast. It wasn’t very satiating taste-wise, but it was filling enough. Afterwards, Jack deemed it too early to sleep (as if Lucifer was going to sleep anyway) and bid that the Devil come watch TV with him. Lucifer obliged and grabbed a beer from the Winchester’s fridge (it wasn’t as if they’d notice; they had enough alcohol to intoxicate an angel). The beer was cheap and tasted stale, but it was beer nonetheless.

Jack had a TV in his room (which Lucifer thought unfair), so the kid sat perched on his bed while Lucifer nestled himself at the foot of the bed. The channel was playing old cartoons. It wasn’t Lucifer’s usual choice of television entertainment, but Jack seemed content and Lucifer had nothing better to watch, so he didn’t complain.

The hours stretched into the night, and the TV droned on. Lucifer was pretty sure Jack was asleep or at least dozing off. He thought about turning off the light and the TV, but he didn’t feel like getting up. He’d probably regret it later, but for the time being, the floor was quite comfortable.

Around midnight, Lucifer started to drift off; each time he started to fall asleep, he forced himself awake. He knocked his head against the bedframe a couple of times, and he knew he’d likely have a bruise by morning if he kept it up. In a fatigued haze, his wings made themselves known. He didn’t bother to send them away, though; instead, he wrapped them around himself like a safety blanket. His head drooped towards his chest, and he fell into sleep.

Dreams came to him in flashes. Truthfully, they were more like distorted memories. He dreamt of his childhood, safe in the Silver City with his siblings playing around him. Then the scene warped and Michael’s face was leering over him as he was shoved from Heaven. He tried to scream from the pain of the wind burning his skin and for the injustice of his ousting, but his voice didn’t make a sound. His wings flailed wildly beneath him as he tried to control his descent; they did nothing to slow is falling. Then it stopped and he was standing in Hell with the moaning of tortured souls swirling around him. It was the Hell he had left before going to LA, though, not the new Hell he had been given after his fall.

Before he could take a step, the scene changed again, and he was in an old church. Uriel was stood before him, ready to press the piano key that would end Chloe’s life. Lucifer was helpless against the memory that thrusted Azrael’s sword into Uriel’s chest. ‘No…’ The Devil breathed, willing it all to stop. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying to his Father to make it stop. Hot blood dripped down the blade and onto his hand. ‘How could you?’ A voice hissed, but it wasn’t Uriel’s; it was Chloe’s. Lucifer’s eyes sprang open, and Chloe’s lifeless face stared back up at him from where his brother had been. ‘No… I didn’t—I didn’t…’ Lucifer’s voices failed him, and he crumpled to the ground.

He awoke with a jerk, knocking his head against the bedframe with a loud  _ bang!  _ The Devil spit out curses, clutching his throbbing head. His wings twitched as they too woke up, and the muscles ached as he stretched them.

Lucifer got up slowly, rubbing his head gingerly. His neck had a crick in it (as he had expected), and stars danced on the edge of his vision. His wings disappeared in a fluttering of feathers, leaving only a few downy feathers as evidence. When he found that he could properly think again, he looked around. He was still in Jack’s room, but Jack himself was nowhere to be found. He would find the kid, but first he needed coffee and a clear mind. (He was pretty sure he was only going to get coffee.)

Lucifer was still on edge when he entered the kitchen. His dream had rattled him more than he’d admit to anyone. His mind was still in turmoil as he made himself a cup of coffee. The warm smell helped to settle his nerves a little, at least. He considered making some toast as well, but the thought of food made his stomach flip. No breakfast for him.

Gripping his coffee like a lifeline, Lucifer sipped at it as he made his way to the library. Jack was seated at a table, too engrossed in whatever he was typing to notice Lucifer’s presence. The kid didn’t look up until Lucifer sat down nearby and set his mug on the table with a clunk. Jack watched him, and Lucifer was certain he was going to ask more questions about his sleeping habits. To his surprise, Jack merely said a good morning and turned back to his work. Maybe the kid had wisened after all.

“What’re you doing?” Lucifer asked after a few minutes of silence.

Jack’s head snapped up, and he turned the laptop screen towards the Devil. “I think I found a case.” Jack pointed to some words on the screen, ready to explain what he had found.

Lucifer cut him off. “Does it help me get home?”

“No, but—”

“Not interested.”

Jack deflated, trying to hide the hurt on his face. A feeling of guilt wormed its way into Lucifer’s heart. He sighed softly. “Fine, explain it to me.”

The kid brightened immediately and started talking about something odd he found in a newspaper. Lucifer tried to follow; he really did. His mind was still jarred from his dream, though, and his thoughts kept straying back to the sight of Chloe’s dead face staring back up at him. Jack’s voice faded into the background.

The heavy sound of boots on the tile floor raised Lucifer’s head. Dean was approaching the table (had he really been so lost in his mind that he hadn’t heard them come in?), his expression unreadable. Sam followed him, sporting a similar face. Jack greeted them before noting their silence. “What’s wrong?”

Sam shifted, casting a glance behind him. “Jack, uh—”

Lucifer followed the Winchester’s gaze. 

Jack stood slowly. “Castiel…” He said softly.

Lucifer’s breath left him like he had been punched in the gut. He eyed the trenchcoat-garbed angel with trepidation as he stood as well. His voice didn’t break a whisper, and his words cracked as he spoke. “Brother…?”


	2. For Lost Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait a bit longer to post this chapter but... whooo boy... After Supernatural's bombshell of an episode, this chapter felt really relevant.

There was a pregnant pause where everyone waited with bated breath, not really sure what to do. It was Jack who broke the silence. “But—” Jack cast a look at Dean. “I thought what burned stayed dead? We burned your body.” The kid’s attention turned back to Castiel.

Dean shifted, stepping minutely closer to the angel. “Yeah, well, Cas’s a tricky son of a bitch to keep down.”

A grin split Jack’s face, and he approached Castiel with an eye of wonder. Slowly, he hugged him, and the angel reciprocated the embrace. Castiel’s face softened as he held the boy, and his eyes drifted across the Winchesters before settling on Lucifer.

Lucifer had been frozen in a stupor, half-risen from his seat. His face was slack, and fresh air seemed lacking in his lungs. Stood before him (and apparently just risen from the dead) was a brother he hadn’t thought about in a long time. His Castiel had borne the same face, though it had looked younger and less burdened with the world’s troubles. And his Castiel wasn’t able to be brought back, not after being struck down by Michael’s sword.

Castiel considered him warily, and his stance grew slightly defensive as he let go of Jack. Lucifer was pretty sure the only thing holding him off was the fact that neither Winchester seemed particularly concerned over his presence. If anything, the brothers were confused over his reaction to the angel.

Lucifer gathered up his wayward thoughts and shoved them back into the strongbox they had broken free of. He pulled a false grin onto his lips. “Lucifer Morningstar.” He introduced himself, giving a little bow for show.

In an instant, a shiny blade appeared in Castiel’s hand. (Lucifer should’ve been expecting it; any mention of his name in this world was met with abhorrence.) “Whoa, Cas.” Dean stepped between him and the aggressive angel. “He’s, uh, he’s here in peace, and he’s not the Lucifer we know.”

Lucifer stepped into Castiel’s field of vision and waved his fingers in a hello. “Yes, listen to your boyfriend. I was sent here to your dimension to fix whatever fuck up you and the Brothers Two have made.” Ignoring Dean’s sputtering, the Devil approached the angel; he eyed the blade in Castiel’s hand tentatively, expecting Castiel to try and stick him with it the moment he got within arm’s reach.

To his relief, the angel sheathed the blade (back into his sleeve?) and tilted his head in the same fashion that Jack did. Slowly, Castiel looked to Sam and Dean. “What’s happened now?”

“Now? Nothing.”

“Uh, excuse me.” Lucifer raised his hand slightly. “I’m here and I’m not supposed to be. Dad knows what malignant little beasties escaped from this hellhole you call a world—” A sinking feeling settled in Lucifer’s chest. If he was here, what was left in his absence? The universe didn’t work in halves; it exchanged, and if the Winchester’s dimension still (figuratively) had a Devil, who knew what had been sent in his place. Literal Hell could be breaking loose back in his home and the only means of fixing it rested in the hands of two lumberjacks, a child, and a zombie angel. Mind-numbing panic was coursing through Lucifer’s veins.

A sharp snap made his head jerk up. Dean was staring at him, repeating his name. The hunter raised his brow once he noticed he had the Devil’s attention. Lucifer mustered a half assed smile. “Sorry, just considering a new problem.” He explained his revelation, watching as his companions’ expressions grew more somber.

“And you’re positive this has happened?”

“As positive as I can be with the little information I have.” Lucifer twisted his ring absently (a tick he had picked up the day before; it was more calming than trying to deal with his dreams).

“God, you sound like Sam…” Dean muttered. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a sigh. “Alright, what about research?”

Normally, Lucifer would’ve rebuked the ‘God’ comment, but he didn’t think the elder Winchester would take kindly to it. “I’ve had a gander through your books; there’s nothing relevant.”

Sam looked like he was trying to ignore Dean’s comment. He shot his brother a light glare. “Alright, so we ask around; we’ll call up some people we know and see if they know anything about portals and other worlds. There’s gotta be something.”

“What about dreamwalkers?” Jack’s voice joined the conversation. Everyone’s eyes turned to the kid. He had sat back down in front of the laptop. He tapped at it a bit before turning the screen towards the crowd. A page on dreamwalkers was open. “I’ve been doing some research.” His eyes briefly flicked to Sam. “Dreamwalkers can see different dimensions and worlds.”

“What about opening a portal?”

“No…” Jack’s expression fell. He glanced back to the computer screen and set his mouth in a firm line of determination. “But… maybe I can make one, with a dreamwalker’s help.”

“Jack, are you sure? Your powers—” Sam was choosing his words carefully.

“I can do it.” Jack reassured the younger Winchester. “I—we’ve been practicing.” He sent a grin at Lucifer.

At the exchange, Sam eyed the Devil with an arched brow. “Really?” His voice was stained with disbelief.

“You did say to help.” Lucifer reminded him, indignation creasing his expression.

Before Sam could say anything else, Dean cut in. “Right, so the kid can do it. Sure. Where do we find a dreamwalker?”

All eyes turned to Jack, and the kid suddenly didn’t seem so sure of his plan. “I—don’t know. I’ve been tracking a few forum threads, but…” He broke off.

“It’s fine, Jack. We can figure it out later.”

Jack seemed reluctant to drop the subject. He glanced back to the laptop screen before remembering the other tabs that were open. “Oh, I think I found a new case!” The kid’s excitement was palpable as he clicked to the open tabs. “This woman, Sandra Brown, went missing in the woods behind her house after she said she saw monsters.”

The Winchesters and Castiel all exchanged a glance like they were trying to decide who got to burst Jack’s bubble. Lucifer was happy to let them silently duke it out; he’d already disappoint the kid enough.

It was Sam who spoke; he cleared his throat. “Jack, uh… are you sure it’s a case? People see things all the time, and going missing isn’t really  _ strange _ . It probably isn’t anything, really.”

Jack’s expression didn’t waver. “It’s a case, I’m positive. Sandra’s neighbors all say they saw the monsters, too, and they heard Sandra’s voice calling out to them from the woods after she disappeared. I think it’s a wendigo.”

Again, Sam spared a glance at Dean. The elder brother shrugged. “Maybe it is a case.”

“Dean…”

“C’mon, Sam. You were the one saying we needed to get back into the swing of things. It can’t hurt to check it out, at least.”

Hearing such positive words from Dean was jarring, and Lucifer had only known him for less than a week. Getting Cas back truly was his desire, it seemed.

Finally, Sam acquiesced. “Fine.”

“Great!” Dean clapped a hand on Cas’s shoulder and started back the way he had come. “Come on, buddy. You can help me pack up Baby.”

Castiel started after Dean, and the duo disappeared without another word.

Bemused, Lucifer turned to Sam. “Baby? Is that code for something?” He didn’t bother to keep the shit-eating grin off his face.

Sam was undeniably uncomfortable with the situation and the Devil’s question. It took him a moment to answer. “It’s, uh—it’s Dean’s car.”

“ _ Oh,  _ right.” The grin was still plastered across Lucifer’s face.

Sam coughed subtly and shot a sideways glance at Jack who was taking keen interest in the conversation.

Lucifer got the message. He had gotten that look enough times from Chloe when he was hanging around Trixie. “Right. What do we need to do then?”

“We?”

“Yes,  _ we _ . I do presume we’re coming this time.”

“Yeah, of course. We’ll, uh… we’ll pack some clothes. Where is the case, Jack?”

“Just outside Twin Falls, Idaho.” Jack reported dutifully, oblivious to the awkward energy and drastic subject change.

“Yeah, we’ll pack some clothes. It’ll take a few days, no doubt.”

“Lovely.” Lucifer clasped his hands together and looked pointedly at Sam. “About the clothes situation—”

Sam just then seemed to realize that Lucifer was still wearing the rumpled clothing he had received two days prior. “Oh… we’ll look into that, too.”

Fixing the clothes situation didn’t take long. The drive to Idaho, on the other hand, did. Baby, it turned out, was a lovely, well-maintained ‘67 Chevy Impala that had a better purr than most of Lucifer’s past lovers. His adoration for the sleek black car didn’t last long, though.

To be exact, it ended about three hours into the trip when he was wedged between Jack and Castiel in the back seat. His long legs were aching to be stretched, and he was pretty sure Jack’s elbow was burrowing into his side. By the seventh hour, he’d been snapped at by the Winchesters going on twenty times for fidgeting and complaining. An hour and a half later, he’d simply given in to his imminent torture and fallen into a light sleep.

The next thing he knew, he was being jostled awake by Jack’s eager hand. Blearily, he realized that they had stopped; he peered out the window and eyed the flickering sign of the seedy roadside motel. Lucifer rubbed at his cheek, sure that there was a red mark imprinted on it (had he fallen asleep on Jack’s shoulder?), and extracted himself from the Impala. The place looked even more dreadful when he was fully awake.

“Really? We’re staying in this excuse for a shithole?” Lucifer turned an offended eye towards Dean.

The elder Winchester shrugged. “Can you do better?”

Normally, Lucifer would’ve laughed at the prospect. Could he do better? He could buy out an entire five star hotel if he wanted to—or at least he could’ve back in LA. Here, there wasn’t anything he could do. Not wanting to give Dean the satisfaction of an answer, he grumbled under his breath and followed Sam and Jack to the rooms they had booked.

It was soon after that Lucifer learned that Sam, Dean, and Castiel were all sharing a room together while he was put in a seperate room with Jack. Not that he really minded; he’d rather bed with the kid than spend an entire night with Dean and Castiel having blatant eye sex with each other from opposite sides of the room. He almost pitied Sam.

Lucifer ordered a pizza for him and Jack with the little pocket money the Winchesters had imparted him with, as there was no word from the other room that they would be leaving any time soon for dinner. So he and Jack spent the evening sitting on their respective beds eating partially-warm pizza and watching shitty cartoons on the shitty TV in a shitty motel. In retrospect, it was one of the better days Lucifer had experienced since he had woken up in the desert.

Sleep didn’t come easy, especially since Lucifer had taken such a long nap in the Impala; he spent most of the night tossing and turning on the stained motel sheets. When morning finally came, Lucifer had managed to get two hours of shut eye at best—and that was filled with fleeting yet disturbing dreams. A knock sounded on the door followed by Dean’s too-awake voice, and Lucifer fought the urge to hurl his pillow at the offending noise. Instead, he merely groaned and rolled out from the suddenly soft and inviting covers. Jack was already up and opening to door by the time Lucifer had scrubbed his hand over his face and attempted to tame his bed hair. Muttering under his breath, he gathered his things and joined Jack and the others.

He was met by Dean’s scrutinizing gaze. “You look like shit.”

The Devil flashed the hunter a brittle grin of fully-bared teeth. “Oh, really? I didn’t have the time to notice.” He snarked.

He didn’t wait to hear Dean’s likely-scathing reply and brushed past Sam and Castiel. For a brief moment, he caught Sam’s eye; the man was watching him with an arched eyebrow. (Was that a glimmer of concern he saw?) Lucifer loaded himself into the Impala and crossed his arms with an air of petulance. Mornings weren’t his thing anymore (not that they ever had been; they were just even worse than they had been in the past).

A moment later, the others piled into the cramped space, and the engine roared to life. Lucifer was glad to watch the shitty little motel disappear in a cloud of dust kicked up by the Impala’s tires.

The day brought more utterly boring stretches of road and too little time to stretch his legs. On their long journey (Sam assured him it was one of their shorter road trips) they only stopped twice—once at a small diner for a lunch of greasy burgers and fries and another time at a gas station because Dean finally caved to Lucifer’s bitching about cramped legs (and because they were low on gas, but that was beside the point).

The sun was starting to sink low in the sky once more as they pulled into the city of Twin Falls. Dean parked the Impala in the lot of a motel (remarkably less seedy than the last had been), and they all untangled themselves from the car. When Dean returned with the room key, he eyed Lucifer and Jack. The Devil waited for the verdict that he was sharing a room with the kid again, but it never came.

“One room. You’re on the couch.” He pointed at Lucifer, his eyes daring the Devil to argue.

Lucifer opened his mouth but decided there wasn’t much of a point in protesting. It wouldn’t get him anywhere. He didn’t care to consider where Jack or Castiel would be sleeping. (They did sleep, didn’t they?)

The room was reasonably spacious, Lucifer decided. The couch was a little worn, but it was comfortable despite the fact that the sunken cushions were hard to get up from. The two beds were closed off from the rest of the room by a curtain, and beside the couch was a tiny kitchenette that smelled strongly of vinegar.

After they had settled, Sam set up his laptop on the table and studied the pages Jack had found. “It does sound like a wendigo…” He concurred, casting a glance at Dean. Jack beamed, obviously pleased at being helpful.

“Right, so what does that mean?” Lucifer drawled from his sprawled position on the couch. He eyed the trio huddled around the laptop and glanced at Castiel who was standing stoically to the side of the table.

“We need to find out where their den is. Then we torch those sons of bitches.” Dean sounded confident in his plan of action.

“Torch them… with fire?” Lucifer mused slowly, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s about the only thing that will kill a wendigo.”

“Ah.”

“There’s still a few hours in the day. Cas and I’ll go ask around, see if we can get anything from the neighbors who saw something.” Dean said, decisive in his ruling.

“Can I come, too?” Jack’s voice piped up, and he looked excitedly at the elder Winchester.

Dean and Cas exchanged glances before Dean shrugged. “What the hell, why not?” His eyes settled on Lucifer. The Devil raised his head, catching the man’s gaze with an inquiring look. “You not going to pitch in, too, and complain about being left out?”

“Oh, no. I’m happy to stay here.” Lucifer shifted his position but otherwise didn’t move from the couch.

“You fine with staying here with the Devil, Sam?”

Sam, who had been enthralled in reading whatever was on the laptop, looked up. He shot Lucifer a look before giving a wordless shrug.

“Alright, we’ll be back later. Order some takeout or something.” Dean herded Cas and Jack towards the door, and the trio were gone into the evening light.

Lucifer closed his eyes, reveling in the sudden peace and quiet. The only sounds were the steady hum of the radiator and the clacking of a keyboard. Lucifer’s fingers tapped out a tuneless song on the his chest, and his thoughts drifted back to his last day on his own earth. Apologizing to Chloe when he got back was going to be hell, or rather, worse than Hell. (He could deal with Hell. The wrath of Chloe Decker was something else entirely.)

He started, his eyes shooting open, when Sam coughed and broke the silence. The panic was slow to uncoil from his tingling fingertips, and he drew in a soft, shaky breath. He’d been more buried in his head than he had realized. When he looked over at his companion, he found Sam’s eyes on him, studying him. Lucifer slipped on a thin grin and sat up properly on the couch. The same uneasiness that Sam had worn back in the dungeon returned, and the man averted his gaze.

Lucifer’s grin faltered, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I make you uncomfortable.” The sentence was a statement: the same statement he had made back in the Winchesters’ dungeon. “And it’s not because your me royally fucked shit up. No… I make  _ you  _ uncomfortable for a different reason entirely, don’t I?”

Sam cleared his throat but said nothing, confirming Lucifer’s words. Curiosity drove the Devil as he rose from the couch and sat down across the table from the taller Winchester . He managed to snag Sam’s gaze, and he held it. The man’s hazel eyes were dark with emotion, and conflict was evident in them. Sam worked his jaw. Finally, his mouth parted and his tongue darted over his lips. “I am… Lucifer’s true vessel.” He spoke the words slowly like if they were spoken too fast, something would break.

Lucifer’s expression sobered, not because of what Sam said, but because of the implications it brought. For a second, his mind darted back to the younger hunter explaining how vessels worked. He was ripped out of his revery as Sam’s soft tone continued.

“A few years ago, the Apocalypse started, and our Lucifer was released from the Cage.” Sam’s hands shifted against the table, and his fingers absently rubbed at his palm. “He… pestered me to let him in—to let him use me as his vessel. I always told him no.” There was a lapse of silence as Sam let his words sink in. “But I—there was a chance to stop him if I said yes, if I let him in. So I did.”

A feeling wormed its way into Lucifer’s stomach, a feeling of pity and a feeling of anger at what the other Devil had done.

“There was a fight; they managed to open a portal to Hell—a portal back to the Cage. Lucifer was winning, though, and he was going to kill Dean. He’d already killed Cas. So I fought against him, and I forced him to fall into Hell. I was in Hell—in the Cage with Lucifer and Michael—for a year.” The declaration seemed finite, like any words spoken after wouldn’t be as relevant or worth anything.

“Time travels differently in Hell…” Lucifer observed, his tone low.

Sam nodded, finally breaking the hard stare. “It was… closer to a hundred years for me.”

Lucifer swallowed thickly, almost regretting having heard the dreadful story. “I’m sorry.” He murmured; the apology was sincere. His hands shook slightly, and he clasped them together to steady them. (One hundred years in Hell for a mortal soul? It was beyond a miracle that the man was sane.) Anger and hatred for this world’s Devil burned in his chest (not just because of the injustice but also because Lucifer yearned for free will more than anything, and Sam had been stripped of all of his own free will.)

“As much as it seems, it wasn’t your fault.”

Lucifer nearly laughed aloud; Sam wasn’t blaming him for the faults of his horrible doppelganger. “I’m sorry I asked.” Lucifer amended.

A tired smile cracked Sam’s face. “I’ve had time to adjust.”

Tension bled from the heavy air, and Lucifer grinned in return. “Believe me, you’re definitely more sane than the last mortal from Hell I talked with.”

Sam’s brows raised. Lucifer waved off the questioning expression. “It’s a story for another time. How about we order some takeout instead?”

Sam agreed, and thirty minutes later, they were sat next to each other on the couch picking at chow mein and pork fried rice.

Lucifer was half finished with his eggrolls and was going for a fortune cookie by the time Dean, Cas, and Jack returned. Dean’s ears were tinged with red as he snatched up a box of Chinese food and sat down at the table. Jack was grinning from ear to ear, and Castiel’s expression was indifferent if not slightly warmer than it had been when he left.

“How’d it go?” Sam finally asked.

Dean picked at his rice before answering. “Neighbors say there’s an old hunting cabin about a half mile out in the woods. It’s probably where the wendigo’s are bedding down.”

The younger Winchester arched an eyebrow. “Is that it?”

Dean shrugged, briefly looking up from his dinner. He eyed Sam sitting beside Lucifer with slight suspicion. “Neighbors didn’t say much besides that.”

“What about the strange lights?” Jack’s voice chimed in.

“One neighbor said he saw some strange lights shining around a few nights ago in the direction of the cabin.” Dean explained at the kid’s prompting. “Don’t think it was a wendigo, though.”

“So they haven’t found Sandra Brown’s body or anything yet?”

“Wendigos will keep a person around for months before eating them, remember? They like their food fresh. If we’re lucky, she still might be alive.” While his words were hopeful, Dean’s tone said he thought otherwise.

As they talked, Lucifer pried open a fortune cookie. He munched on the flaky, sugary bits while uncurling the little note of paper inside. On a half-interested whim, he read the little hopeful saying on it.  _ ‘You will be aided greatly by a person you thought unimportant.’  _ Odd. Feeling a touch perturbed by the note, Lucifer balled it up and tossed it away. It smacked Sam in the nose and fell into the remains of his dinner. The long-haired Winchester gave him a glare which the Devil easily deflected with an innocent smile.

The silly phrase was all but forgotten as Lucifer shooed the crowd off his couch. “Off with you lot. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d rather sleep before taking on some monster in the morning.” Sam seemed to agree with his sentiments because the hunter collected his trash and disappeared behind the curtain that separated the room. Dean gave him a huff and took the rest of his food to the table; with one hand, he ate the cold leftovers of the chow mein and with the other hand, he tapped at the laptop left abandoned there. Cas gave Lucifer a glance (he was sure the angel still didn’t wholy trust him) before sitting down beside the elder Winchester.

The Devil eyed them with a knowing smirk and turned his attention to Jack, who hadn’t moved. “You did hear me, right? I’d like some sleep, even if you don’t.”

Jack caught his gaze and dropped it in the same instant. As he stood up from the couch, he worried at his hands (an action Lucifer hadn’t seen from him since they’d first met). Lucifer heaved a sigh, forcing out the question. “What’s wrong?”

The kid’s head jerked up like he’d been stung. “I—you never sleep well. I could—”

“I’m fine.” Lucifer muttered, just loud enough for Jack to hear it. He’d make do, at least; maybe if he layered enough blanket on top of himself it would rid him of nightmares.

Jack persisted, though. “But you always call out for Chloe—”

“ _ I’M FINE.”  _ The snarl forced itself out of Lucifer’s throat before he could stop it. He snapped at Jack, his expression brinking on ferality. His eyes winked softly with simmering hellfire. Stiffly, Lucifer grabbed the blankets that were perched atop the coffee table and unfurled them over himself as he curled up on the couch. Turning so his back faced his companions, Lucifer barely made out Dean and Cas’s alarmed faces. He pretended not to hear Sam emerge from the side room and utter a faint, “what the hell…” Instead, he let the dark familiarity of sleep pull him under.

The dreams came as they always did, and as usual, they caught him unawares. This time, however, things were different. For one, Chloe was nowhere to be seen, nor did her whispers or any other whispers taunt him. Instead, he found himself in a little glade dotted with stalks of blooming baby’s breath and ringed by proud birch trees. Cautious about the lack of pain and suffering, Lucifer wandered in a circle on the short-cropped grass. The entire scene was picturesque which set Lucifer even more on edge; surely, disaster couldn’t be far off. As if on cue, the crackling and popping of wicked flames tickled his ears.

Lucifer turned towards the sound and spied a wildfire licking at the edges of the peaceful glade. A brief moment of fear stirred in his stomach before he remembered that the blaze couldn’t harm him in the slightest. He strode towards the flames with the intent of walking right through them; however, he was stopped as a shadowy figure appeared in his path. Their form had no shape, and everything about them was continuously undulating, never settling.

‘Who are you?’ Lucifer forced defiance into his words, making them as loud as possible. If the being heard him, they didn’t show it. Around them, the fire continued to eat up the glade, growing into a roar that nearly deafened everything. Frustrated about the lack of an answer, Lucifer gave a barking laugh. ‘I’m not afraid of a little fire. I’m the Lord of Hell, you know.’

The shadow took a step towards him, and the little flicker of fear returned, now alive in the Devil’s chest. Unbidden, his wings made themselves known; it was almost as if an invisible hand was spreading them out. Swallowing thickly, Lucifer tried to take a step back but found that his feet wouldn’t move. Suddenly, he was but a puppet, and he was willing to bet that the shadowy creature was his puppeteer.

Warmth tickled the base of his pinions, and Lucifer’s eyes darted to stare at the flames that were getting ever closer to his pearlescent feathers. His breath hitched in his chest when the acrid scent of burning feathers wreathed around his head. When the fire finally met the flesh of his wing, scalding it with the remnants of sooty down, it felt like he was Falling all over again. The skin twisted and melted, dripping so slow that he could feel each individual drop like hot wax. Screams were tearing at his throat, but they were smothered by the howling of the wildfire.

Then the being made a snapping motion, and the pain subsided to a dull ache. Able to properly breathe once more, Lucifer hungrily sucked in breaths of air, ignoring the fact that each inhale tasted like fresh blood. Flicking his eyes to his wings once more, Lucifer found the blaze still eating away at them; he just couldn’t feel it anymore. Part of him was grateful for the numbness. The other part of him wasn’t because that meant the thing had moved on to “better” things. At least he didn’t have to wait long.

As soon as he shifted his eyes back to the being, the cold, smooth bite of metal was plunged into his abdomen. Gasping slightly, Lucifer gripped at the form that was suddenly in his reach. The pain was slow to come, as if his brain was finally catching up with the fact that he had been stabbed. Looking down, he was met with the sight of glistening silver entering his torso and way too much blood. The hand gripping the blade gained pallor until it was the pale hue of sun-kissed skin. Lucifer drifted his gaze back upwards and felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The face staring down at him shifted in rapid succession from Castiel, to Dean, and to Sam before settling on Jack’s visage.

“No… I—” Lucifer choked out, swirling feelings of betrayal, loss, abandonment and pure anguish building in his heart. The thing that held Jack’s face didn’t let him finish his sentence. They tugged the blade out in a swift action and let Lucifer fall.

Lucifer jolted awake with a muffled gasp, his hands flying to where the blade had pierced his abdomen. His shaking fingertips met soft fabric slightly damp with sweat. Mind sluggish from sleep and the nightmare, Lucifer batted away the blanket that covered him and tried (unsuccessfully) to stand up. He ended up trapping his foot in a knot in the blanket and promptly falling off the couch. In his flailings, his wings burst out in an attempt to steady himself. If anything, they only made the situation worse, and when things settled, he was sat at the base of the couch, twisted uncomfortably in a blanket and dusted with loose feathers.

“Need some help?” Sam’s voice drifted over from the table.

Lucifer didn’t give the man a reply; he made a show of untangling himself from the blanket with no (or very little, at least) trouble and stood. Muttering colorfully worded curses under his breath, Lucifer tucked his feathery nuisances away. Sam was watching him the entire time, his head peeking over the rim of the laptop’s screen. The Devil scrubbed a hand through his hair as he took a seat opposite of the hunter.

“What time is it?” Lucifer grumbled, eyeing the empty mug that was sitting on the table.

“Just after four in the morning.” Sam’s voice carried a degree of tiredness akin to the one infecting Lucifer’s.

“What, couldn’t sleep?” Mustering a grin, Lucifer lazily shifted his attention to the Winchester’s face.

In turn, the man shrugged. “Woke up, couldn’t go back to sleep. Figured I’d look into these dreamwalkers Jack was talking about.”

Lucifer hummed lightly, picking up the mug and peering inside it. A few dredges of cold coffee rolled across the porcelain. “Anything interesting?”

“Yeah, actually. There’s a guy—Derek Swan—looks like he might actually be the real deal.”

“D’you think he might be able to open one of these portals? So we can… save your mother and I can go home?” Lucifer set the mug down, catching Sam’s eyes once more. There was the faint look of concern in the hazel depths—one that had been there since he had sat down at the table. Steeling his jaw, Lucifer did his best to ignore the look.

“With Jack’s help, hopefully. Depends on if Swan is willing, though.” Sam’s fingers drummed on the tabletop lightly, and his expression said he was debating whether or not to keep talking. “You want to… talk about it?” The younger Winchester’s voice was wary and a bit strained, but the underlying current of concern and  _ pity  _ was still there.

Lucifer played coy because he did not want to talk about it  _ thank you very much _ . “Talk about what?” His fingers danced along the rim of the mug.

Sam sighed through his nose and pressed his lips together into a thin line. “I think you know.”

“Do I?” Lucifer queried, arching an eyebrow.

Lucifer’s avoidance was egging Sam on because the hunter bit out, “Whatever the hell your dream was about ‘cause it obviously terrified you enough that you’d rather stay here talking to me instead of going back to sleep.”

Cold anxiety stirred in Lucifer’s chest, and he stilled his fingers. “You certainly do have a low opinion of yourself.” He commented in a rumbling drawl, refusing to let the anxiety grow further.

Sam said nothing, watching him with a hard expression.

Lucifer shifted in his seat, leaning forward so his elbows rested on the table. Ever since he’d woken up, the feeling of burning feathers and dripping flesh had stuck with him, and he fought the urge to scratch at his back. Lucifer failed to completely suppress a shudder that worked its way through his shoulders; the action only strengthened Sam’s attention on him. “I—No, I… can’t. Not right now.”  _ Hopefully not ever _ .

Sam seemed to find the answer at least somewhat acceptable, though. His hawkish stare lifted with glimmers of pity still creasing his forehead.

Lucifer rapped his fingertips on the table before standing in a fluid motion. Sam watched him, looking curious. “I… need to try something.” Lucifer offered the explanation hastily before slipping out the motel room’s door.

The air outside was bitter and freezing, every ounce of winter beating down from the night sky. The blowing wind tasted like old grease and cigarette smoke, and briefly, Lucifer wished for a bit of nicotine in his system. It never really did much for him, but at least the motion was familiar. However, he didn’t have a lighter and there was no one around to bum a cigarette off of, so that idea was out of the question.

Blowing out a sigh that wreathed white mist around his face, Lucifer sat down on the concrete pathway outside of the motel. He rubbed his hands together—not because it was cold (though the chill was getting to him a little) but because trepidation was beginning to slow his movements. He worked his jaw before resting his elbows on his knees. His index finger and thumb rubbed at the onyx stone set into his ring, calming his thoughts. He inhaled the biting air before speaking in a croaky whisper. “Mazikeen, your Lord—” Any amount of steel his tone had contained died away. “Maze, I don’t know if you can even hear me, but if you can… I am okay—relatively, at least. Getting thrown between worlds is a bit of a Debbie Downer, but… if there’s some way—any way you can help… please, do.”

Lucifer’s voice faded off, and the only sound was his own slightly ragged breathing. Well, there was still one more outlet to try, he supposed. Shuffling his knees, he pressed his hands together, palms flat, and bowed his head. “Amenadiel—” His brother’s name came out in a breathy laugh. “I don’t even know if  _ you  _ can hear me anymore, being Fallen and losing your wings and all. But if you can, keep Chloe and Trixie safe. For me, please, Brother. I don’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed, his fingers curling in on themselves. “I don’t know what might have slipped through the tear in the fabric of reality. Just make sure they’re safe.”

He finished his prayer and settled back against a paint-chipped pillar that was nearby. He picked at the sparse grass that was just within his reach until dirt was etched beneath his nails and bits of grass were shredded across the concrete pathway. To his right, a door opened, causing dull yellow light to spill from the entrance. Heavy boot steps trudged towards Lucifer, but he didn’t give them a glance. Instead, he turned his gaze skyward and stared at the stars that were winking in and out of sight. A great many of them, he remembered the names of—just as he remembered creating them with unbridled joy.

The boots scuffed at the concrete as their owner lowered himself to rest beside the Devil. Lucifer spared Sam a quick glance before looking back to the stars. The hunter cleared his throat. “Did your ‘something’ work?”

Lucifer rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Who knows. Too early to tell.”

“Oh…”

Lucifer found Polaris twinkling amongst its brethren on a canvas of black satin. He gave the star a wane smile. “That one’s my favorite, you know.” He waved a finger vaguely in the star’s direction.

“Hm?” Sam’s gaze followed Lucifer’s indication quizzically.

“The North Star. Polaris.” Lucifer rambled on. “It took me a long time to make. It had quite the rebellious little soul—always wanting to outshine the rest of them.”

“Right, you made the stars.”

The Devil shot his companion a bemused look. “Does that really surprise you?”

“Kind of.” Sam said honestly. “I don’t usually associate the Devil with… softer things.”

Lucifer laughed—a laugh that wasn’t completely dry and cynical. “The stars are hardly soft. You should have seen the burns some of the little bastards gave me.”

Sam huffed, a grin curling the edge of his lips.

Lucifer mimicked his grin, studying the man. “What is it you desire, Sam?”

His question brought Sam’s curious eyes glancing in his direction. The man held his stare for a moment before shrugging and looking back up towards the night sky. Surprise spread through the Devil as he realized that the hunter hadn’t even struggled to break his gaze. (His mojo was still working; he could feel it. He simply held no power over Sam Winchester.) Lucifer was so lost in thought, he nearly missed Sam’s belated reply.

“I dunno… I just want to keep those I love safe, I guess.” The answer was generic—something Lucifer had heard a thousand times before—but knowing the man’s line of work, there was likely something more he meant. For once, Lucifer didn’t push the subject. He merely gave a half nod and watched Polaris glow with cold light.

Lucifer sat there until the chill began to creep into his extremities and make his fingers stiff. There was a reason Hell never froze over: the Devil loathed the cold. Suppressing a shiver, Lucifer stood and dusted off his pants. “Coming in?” He tilted his head at Sam.

As the hunter rose, Lucifer plodded back into the warmth of the motel room. He languidly laid himself out on the couch and propped his arms behind his head. Sam took his place behind the laptop once more. Words danced on the tip of his tongue, but Lucifer held his thoughts in. Breaking such a gentle silence seemed a heinous crime. Instead, he allowed his mind to wander and linger on less pressing matters.

Dean didn’t emerge for another hour; the shorter Winchester pushed aside the curtain, sporting sleep-mussed hair and a five o’clock shadow. Lucifer watched him with an eye of amusement, a smirk lingering on his lips. No one else appeared, however, and Lucifer realized how empty the room was.

“Where did our other celestial companions run off to?”

“Cas left last night around midnight; said he had to go meet an angel about our… dimension problem. Alone.” The last word twisted Dean’s mouth bitterly, and Lucifer could tell he didn’t like his angel running off by himself.

“Jack was going to the gas station up the road to get some snacks or something a little while after I got up.” Sam reported with a growing frown.

“Shouldn’t he be back by now?” Lucifer queried, sitting up.

Sam checked the time, his brow creasing with worry. “Yeah.” He shot a glance at Dean who faintly mirrored his expression.

“ _ Bloody hell…”  _ Lucifer muttered under his breath. Things had actually been going okay, all things considered; now they were going to shit. “D’you think the wendigo could’ve dragged him off?”

Sam considered the question before hesitantly shaking his head. “Unlikely. Jack’s strong enough to fend one off, for sure.”

“It’s more likely an angel or demon tracked him down and managed to whisk him away.” Dean’s rough tone chimed into the conversation.

“Lovely…” Lucifer struggled to contain the growl building in his throat. He stood, resisting the urge to pace on restless feet. Clasping his hands together, he regarded the two brothers. “Well, once more unto the breach, hm?”

His attempted humor fell on deaf ears, and the situation didn’t lighten. Lucifer shrugged off the Winchesters’ hard stares, already heading towards the door.

“Hold up, Hotshot.”

Lucifer turned expectantly at the tone of the older hunter. A long object was tossed at him, which he caught deftly. He cast a speculative eye over it. “Your angel’s little dagger?”

“Angel blade,” Dean explained, gathering up a few supplies of his own. “It’ll kill just about anything.”

“Reassuring.” Lucifer quipped; he flipped the blade in his hands a few times, testing its weight and balance, before resuming his stride out of the motel. The Winchesters were quick to follow. In the lot of the motel, he cast an eye up the street. In the distance, he could make out the dimly glittering neon of the gas station. “I don’t presume we’re walking.” The Devil turned towards his companions.

“Actually, do you think you could fly up there?”

Lucifer eyed Sam, his expression flattening. “I’d rather not…” Even though he had already used his new wings, he still didn’t like the thought of using them so voluntarily.

Sam’s jaw set, and Lucifer could see the conflict on his face. “We’re already wasting time as it is, and Jack is probably in danger.”

The words were provoking, just as the hunter had intended them to be. Lucifer’s eyes darkened for a moment. “Fine.” He relented. He rolled his shoulders and unfurled his wings. (It was likely his imagination, but his feathers seemed to be wreathed in the faint scent of smoke.) The long, sharp pinions draped around him, glowing with the vibrance of the moon and the stars.

Sam and Dean were silent for a minute, and Lucifer realized they hadn’t seen his angelic ornaments in their full, kempt glory. Irritation bubbled in his chest, and he snapped his fingers sharply. Both started, dragging their gazes to his face. Sam cleared his throat. “Just look around. See if you can find anything pointing to where he went. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Try not to get jumped.” Dean added.

Lucifer shot the elder brother a sardonic smirk. “I’ll do my best.” His wing muscles ached slightly as he extended the white appendages to their full length. In a few strong strokes, he was airborne. The wind was singing on his skin, and little crystals of ice built on his clothes and hair. The short flight was exhilarating—much more so than it had been the first time—but he forced the feeling away. It wasn’t needed.

The gas station was empty save for a half-asleep cashier that could be spotted leaning against the counter inside the store. A few of the lights around the little building were out, and a few more were fizzling. Unease prickled down Lucifer’s skin as he stalked about, and his feathers felt ruffled despite his wings already being tucked away. Bits of trash and other debris fluttered across the ground, scattered by the breeze; the rattling of dead leaves only added to the ambience and put Lucifer further on edge. He wasn’t scared (the Devil didn’t do scared), but  _ something  _ wasn’t right. Whatever it was, it was making him twitchy.

He continued to peruse the exterior of the building. In the distance, he could make out the rumbling purr of the Impala. A flash of light catching on something gathered his attention. Lying innocuously on the ground was a 3 Musketeers bar, still in the wrapper—though it did look like someone had stepped on it. Didn’t the kid say mention he had an affection for nougat? Lucifer nudged the candy with the toe of his boot, unsure if he should be surprised or not when nothing happened.

Huffing softly, Lucifer started back towards the front of the store. No doubt, the Winchesters would be driving up soon. The engine purr was growing steadily closer. As he walked beneath the flickering lights, something thick and heavy knocked him in the back of the head. His vision went black, and two thoughts were left lingering in his mind:  _ not this again  _ and  _ shit, Dean was going to yell at him for getting jumped. _

Stabbing sunlight wriggled its way beneath Lucifer’s eyelids. Groaning under his breath, he peeled them open and instantly snapped his eyes shut again as more bright light accosted them. Keeping his eyes closed, he fought against the pounding in his head to get his bearings. He was sitting in a semi-upright position. Whatever he was leaned against was hard and vaguely wood-like—a wall? There was something soft stuffed between his lower back and the wall—a pillow. Blindly, Lucifer groped for the rough fabric and tugged it from beneath him. It was the best weapon he could get at the moment.

A shadow fell across his closed eyelids, and tentatively, Lucifer pried his eyes open once more. A face beamed down at him, grinning a too-happy grin. A mop of golden brown hair fell over their whiskey-amber eyes which were pinched tight with forced enthusiasm. “He- _ llo,  _ Luci!”

The words were loud and jarring, so Lucifer did the logical thing—he swung his pillow at the person. He must have still been off his game, however, because the cushion was easily plucked from his grasp. So he opted for the next best thing. Swiftly rearing back a fist, Lucifer clocked his potential kidnapper in the jaw with as much force as he could muster. The person fell back, stumbling.

Lucifer stifled a gasp of pain as he pulled himself up against the wall. He held his hand to his chest, slowly flexing the bruised fingers. (Punching someone hurt like a son of a bitch, which meant he was dealing with someone celestial or he was somehow mortal again; he hoped it was the former.)

By the time he was on his feet completely, the golden-haired man had recovered from the impromptu attack. Rage flickered in his opponent’s eyes, but it was smoothed out with an easy grin. “You don’t change, do ya, Luci?”

Lucifer swallowed against the cotton ball feeling in his throat. “Do I know you? Because you seem to know me, and I’m not usually one to forget things.”

Something akin to hurt shadowed the stranger’s eyes, and his boisterous attitude seemed to dampen slightly. The man sucked in an audible breath as if he were pulling back on a happy mask. He splayed out his arms with dramatic flair before sweeping into a deep bow. “Gabriel, Trickster and Archangel of God.”

A tightness wormed its way into Lucifer’s throat, and he just stared at the man who claimed to be a brother. Memories played in his mind of a long time ago, but he shoved them away. “How?” The Devil loathed the way his voice croaked. “You… disappeared when you were a fledgling. Mum never did tell me where you went, and  _ Daddy Dearest _ could never be bothered.”

Finally, guilt shone through Gabriel’s cheery visage. “Dad told me he had—a special mission for me. And I—I was tired of being in yours and Michael’s shadow all the time, so I was excited to finally be chosen for something.” Gabriel paused, his gaze drifting to the floor where he despondently shuffled his feet. (There was the Gabriel Lucifer remembered; he always managed to pull a ‘kicked puppy’ vibe when he was being told off for something.) “But, turns out, I was just a replacement.”

Lucifer studied his brother intently. The archangel shrugged before continuing his story. “The Gabriel in this world had… died before his time, so Daddio sent me over here to play his— _ my _ part. Told me this world needed me more than ours did.” Gabriel threw his hands out once more. “So here I am.”

A bruise was forming on Gabriel’s jaw, spotted with angry reds and muted purples. Lucifer nodded slowly, rubbing a thumb over his equally bruised knuckles. He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

That grabbed Gabriel’s attention. “Wow. Two words I’d never thought I’d hear you or any version of you say with sincerity.”

Lucifer grinned.

“What for?”

“What happened—what Father did. For me never thinking to look for you, especially after I Fell. Not for the punch, though.” Lucifer circled a finger over his own face in reflection of the growing blemish on Gabriel’s. “That’s your fault entirely.”

The sentence garnered a chuckle from the archangel. The laughter quickly died off, however, and the room was filled with a suffocating kind of silence.

Lucifer swallowed again and cast a searching eye around the near-empty room. The walls were mostly wood, save for a few spaces filled with foggy windows. There were two closed doors, each looking a little bedraggled, and a sagging cot in the corner. “Where’s Jack?” His heart jumped to his throat. (Panic? Protectiveness? Lucifer didn’t know anymore.)

“Ah, the nephilim?” Gabriel raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why, you attached?”

Lucifer abandoned his investigation of the room and whirled on his brother, teeth bared and eyes flashing. “If you’ve hurt Jack—”

Gabriel threw his hands up in a placating gesture. “Whoah! Chill! Kid’s fine. He’s in there.” He jabbed a thumb at the door behind him.

The Devil gave Gabriel a long glare before brushing past the angel and throwing the door open. (It wasn’t locked, he realized, after pulling it with a little too much force.) The door slammed against the wall with a sharp  _ bang!  _ and the two people inside the room jumped, dropping the cards in their hands.

Jack’s wide golden eyes met his, and the kid’s shocked face melted into a happy grin. Jack waved ( _ waved _ , as if the situation was totally normal) and looked between Gabriel and him. The other person—a woman—was staring at Lucifer with saucer-like eyes.

Turning to Gabriel, Lucifer pointed at the woman. “Who’s she?”

“Sandra Brown. My, uh, bait.”

“Sandra… Brown. You orchestrated this entire thing? The wendigos? The case?”

“Yeah…” Gabriel replied slowly, his face as stoic as possible for the Trickster.

“Why?”

“To get yours and the Winchester’s attention, of course.” The archangel said with nonchalance.

“Couldn’t you just send a text or call or drop by like a normal person?”

Gabriel considered Lucifer’s words as if those options hadn’t occurred to him. Finally, he held up a finger. “First off, s’not really my thing. Mischief and trickery are, if you hadn’t noticed. Secondly, the Winchesters  _ kinda  _ think I’m dead.”

Lucifer gave his brother a deadpan expression, his mouth settling in a thin line. “Do I want to know?” He drawled.

Gabriel’s manner grew a touch more serious, and his eyes gained a far-away look. “Probably not.”

The Devil huffed and looked back to Jack. The kid was collecting the cards from the little table he sat at and stuffing them back into a small box. Uno, Lucifer recognized the game from a “game night” at the Decker household. Slowly, he approached the table. Jack looked up at him and flashed him another smile; Lucifer returned it, albeit his was a bit more watery. His eyes roved over the boy, mentally checking him for injuries. He seemed fine, and briefly, Lucifer wondered just how Gabriel had managed to kidnap him.

“I’m okay.” Jack reassured him, able to read Lucifer’s expression. 

In turn, Lucifer sniffed and looked to the woman. “How did he manage to get you here, darling?” He put on a pleasant smile, examining Sandra Brown. She was in every sense a middle-aged soccer mom, with a blonde-streaked bob cut and a perfect manicure. How mundane.

Sandra studied him when he spoke to her, her face glazing over as she roved her eyes over Lucifer. “Mr. Gabriel promised to get me into the Casa Erotica films if I helped him out…” Her voice was everything he expected it to be—too high pitched and too breathy. Her words came out a purr—or at least an attempt at a purr. (He gave her points for effort.)

Arching an eyebrow, Lucifer cast a curious glance at Gabriel. “Casa Erotica?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Side hobby of mine.”

“Oh.”

When Lucifer looked back to the table, Sandra had risen and was advancing on him. A sultry smile was on her lips when she back Lucifer into a wall and laced her arms around his neck. (Really, sometimes Lucifer wished he could turn off his damned charm.) The Devil easily untangled himself from her grasp, stepping away. “Sorry, love, no time for that now.” A pout was playing on the woman’s lips as Lucifer let himself out of the room. Jack trailed after him.

In the room with the cot—free from the cougar’s claws—Lucifer rounded on Jack. The kid stopped suddenly, nearly crashing into the Devil as he turned. Lucifer caught his gaze, and Jack held it unwavering. “Why’d you go with Gabriel? Now, I know he turned out to actually be alright, but really? Going with a stranger?”

“He said he could help us. With the portals and the other worlds.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to come and tell us where you were going?”

Jack bowed his head, and a touch of remorse and shame was evident in his tone. “No, I—”

“Sam and Dean are—” Shit. What had happened to the two Winchesters? They weren’t in the cabin (going on what he had learned, Lucifer sufficed that they were in the hunting cabin in the woods), so it was likely that they were convinced some monster had gotten Jack and had now dragged Lucifer off.

As if on cue, a door—the one Lucifer hadn’t been through yet—was kicked open and the Brothers Two appeared in the doorway, illuminated by morning sunlight. Having been stood next to the door, Lucifer got a face full of angel knife. The blade had grazed across his cheek by the time he had the chance to lurch away. 

His hand flew to his abused skin and came away bloody.  _ “Fucking hell… _ ” He glared daggers at the duo. “Do you two ever consider  _ not  _ bursting into a place guns blazing?”

At his tone, the Winchesters dropped their defensive stance, shock and confusion making its way into their expressions.

“Lucifer? Jack?” Sam’s gaze flicked from the Devil to the kid partially hidden behind him.

“Man, what the hell…” Dean muttered, shifting his grip on the angel blade.

“Hello, boys, nice of you to show up.” Lucifer grouched, attempting to wipe away the blood welling at the cut on his cheek. “Surprise—no wendigos. Just another  _ long lost brother.” _ Drawing his reddened fingers away from his skin, he made a mocking flourish towards the other door.

Gabriel stepped through it, looking a tad bit sheepish. “Hey Sam. Dean-o.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone please come scream with me about Devil's Bargain. Please. I need to actually gush about this (because silent screaming in a sleeping house isn't fun enough).


	3. Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay, I'm back, baby! Finally broke free from the malicious writer's block goblin that had stolen my brain. Like I said last chapter, not gonna be as long as chapter one or two. But still, it's pretty damn long.

The Winchesters looked shocked, which was surprising, given that angels returning from the dead wasn’t unheard of for them. Their expressions would have been hilarious if Lucifer wasn’t sporting a lovely scratch on his face and a disgruntled annoyance towards his brother. Had their mouths hung open for a moment longer, the Devil would have snapped them shut himself.

Thankfully, the duo regained their wits and considered Gabriel with wary expressions.

“How?” Sam asked.

Gabriel laughed; Lucifer could make out the bitterness behind it. “Are you really that surprised, Samantha?”

The taller Winchester hesitated. “No, not really.” He replied.

Dean still looked somewhat suspicious. “Where the hell have you been? Saving the world would’ve been much easier with some archangel backup. Hell, where were you when Amara was loose?”

The Trickster’s expression soured slightly. “Who?” He looked to Lucifer; Lucifer shrugged (he was new here—he didn’t know anything).

“The Darkness.” Sam explained.

“Oh…” Gabriel drawled, sweeping an eye over the Winchesters. “You let out Auntie Darkness?”

“Not willingly—”

Dean cut Sam off. “Yeah, we did. Quit avoiding the question: where the hell were you?”

“I was, uh… indisposed…” Gabriel shuffled, suddenly looking quite abashed.

Lucifer took pity on his brother and changed the topic. “Alright, why return now, hm?”

The golden-haired angel shot the Devil a look of relief. “I, uh, heard there was a nephilim runnin’ around. Kid o’ Luci’s.” His gaze stayed on Lucifer for a second before he flicked it over to Jack (who, Lucifer noted, was being unusually quiet during their conversation). Gabriel shrugged, doing his best to look nonchalant. “Figured it was time to get back into the game. Did some diggin’ and found out that Luci got his ass kicked and ended up falling through an interdimensional rift.”

“Then, couple of days ago, I find out that my—I, uh— _this_ Luci is wandering around this world now, and I figured some big shit’s about to go down. So, _voila._ ”

“Hold on.” Sam pointed at Lucifer. “You two know each other?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but Lucifer spoke over him. “He’s from my world… originally. Dear Old Dad things he can exchange us like little action figures—one of them breaks, you get a new one.”

The hunters mulled over Lucifer’s words in silence.

“He said he could help open a rift.” Jack’s voice cut in.

“Ah—”

“Can you?” Dean’s eyes glimmered with barely disguised hope.

“Well,” Gabriel began, “I know how to—partly, at least. With the help of your nephilim, we should be able to crack open a new one.”

“Great. How do we do it?”

“Now?” _“Now?”_ Sam and Lucifer spoke in unison. Lucifer sent the tall Winchester a glance.

“Got something better to be doing?” Dean challenged.

“What about Cas? Are you just planning on leaving him behind?” Sam countered.

“I’ll give him a call—tell him where we went. Besides, if something goes wrong on our end and shit hits the fan, he can pull us out.” Dean turned back to Gabriel, considering the discussion done.

“And how’s he gonna know if something’s wrong, Dean?”

Dean paused, half extending a hand towards his brother. His fist clenched and unclenched. “Sam, just—” He breathed in through his nose; his sentence was left unfinished.

“Fine.” Sam snapped, clearly fuming.

 _“You two haven’t changed, have you?”_ Gabriel muttered under his breath. The hunters shot him dually withering glares, and the archangel clasped his hands together. “Right-o… I don’t suppose you and Sasquatch have been to this place you’re wanting to travel to?”

“We have, actually.”

“Oh, good. ‘Means this’ll probably work.”

Lucifer arched his brow at his brother but stayed silent. As of now, he was merely a passenger along for the ride.

“Ah, Jack—you think you could, uh, find out where exactly we’re going? You’re gonna have to open the portal wherever their memory shows you. I’ll give you some grace to help.”

The kid nodded and looked to Sam. Sam looked a bit hesitant, but he nodded; Jack put his hand to the man’s forehead, and a golden glow emitted from where they touched.

Dean eyed them before pulling out his phone and muttering that he was going to call Cas. He shot Gabriel another hard stare and stepped out of the cabin.

Now that it had quieted, Lucifer stalked over to Gabriel and grabbed him by the elbow. He pulled the archangel with him to a corner of the room, ignoring his brother’s indignant squawking. “So, what’s in this for you? I don’t imagine you’re doing this purely out of the goodness of your heart.”

“What?” Gabriel sounded hurt. “I can’t just be a good samaritan?”

“You? Hardly. I thought mischief and tricks were more your thing.”

“Using my own words against me, ouch…” The angel grouched. “Alright, yeah, I want something when this fiasco is all over.” Gabriel fixed Lucifer with an indecipherable stare. “I wanna go home, Luci.”

Lucifer drew his tongue over his lips. “You want to go back to my world?”

“Hell, yeah, I do. Do you know how much of a shitshow this world is?” Gabriel flared his hands out, gesturing around him.

“I have a vague idea…”

“So, yeah, I wanna go home. Finally.”

“Mhm. I don’t have a problem with that, but how do you think Dad’ll feel about the return of the ‘prodigal son’?”

Gabriel’s hand motions ceased, and he gave Lucifer a dry look. “Since when have you given a damn about what our old man thinks?”

“I don’t. I just—” _I fear the consequences._ He wanted to say. He and Gabriel may go untouched, but his Father’s wrath may turn on Linda, or Trixie, or Chloe. His expression tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Gabriel read his expression. “You’re afraid…” The archangel breathed before he barked a laugh. “Never in a millenia would I imagine that you—the ‘Rebellious Son’—would be afraid of God.”

Lucifer settled his stare on his brother, feeling his eyes glowing with hellfire. An uncomfortable burning had sunken into his chest; he clenched his fist and rolled his fingers, resisting the urge to punch Gabriel in the jaw (again).

He shoved the urge away and looked up. Dean had stepped back in, and Sam and Jack had finished their mind-meld shit. From their faces, it was obvious they had caught the tail end of the brothers’ conversation.

A low growl escaped Lucifer, and he brushed past Gabriel none-too-softly as he returned to Jack’s side. “Lovely. Can we get on with it?”

“I’m ready.” Excitement bled into Jack’s voice. “What do I need to do now?”

Gabriel joined their group, waving a hand at a clear space before them. “Just open a rift. Focus on where you want to go and make it happen.”

Jack nodded, twitching a little as the archangel laid a hand on his shoulder. His golden eyes closed, and his brow creased in concentration.

Slowly, sparks began to spit from the air. A faint crackling burst from the space, setting Lucifer’s hair on end. The sound grew louder until a loud whine rent the air and a golden flash blinded Lucifer. When the spots faded from his vision, he could make out the unstable edges of the rift. The space around it rippled, and the light distorted as it touched the portal.

As the rift settled, Gabriel stepped away, his hands raised slightly. “Ah, if you fellas don’t mind, I think I’ll sit this little adventure out.”

The Winchesters looked to the archangel, brows raised.

“Y’know, someone’s gotta stay behind and fill Cassie in when he gets here.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to protest, but Dean’s well-placed jab in the ribs made his jaw snap shut; the Devil glared at the hunter. “Suit yourself, Gabe. Just don’t get into too much mischief.” He said to his brother.

Gabriel gave Lucifer a grin that promised all the mischief he could manage to stir up. “Sure, bro.”

Lucifer’s lip twitched upwards in a smirk and he turned back to the trio waiting by the portal. “Shall we?” He indicated the shimmering rift.

Dean was the first to go in. The hunter’s form disappeared in a flash of light. Sam soon followed. “Waiting for an invitation?” Lucifer asked Jack; the kid lingered by the rift, his mouth set in an uncertain line.

“No…” Jack glanced at the Devil, his brow creased. “Just afraid.”

“Ah… No time like the present, hm?” Lucifer took a step towards the rift, his eyes not leaving the kid.

Jack’s teeth worried at his lip before he stepped forward as well. A surprised warmth spread through Lucifer as the kid slipped his hand into the Devil’s and gripped his fingers. Lucifer looked to Jack with wide eyes; he schooled his shocked expression and stepped into the portal’s light.

It was like creating the stars all over again. The light was blinding—that was to be expected. Then came the searing heat, and in a second, it was gone. Jack’s presence, which had been a solid warmth beside him, suddenly wrenched away. Before Lucifer had time to process the loss of his companion, his vision returned in flashes of a dismal world, gray and coated with ash. He didn’t have long to admire the scenery before the ground rushed up to meet him, and his numb face met cold earth.

* * *

 Lucifer awoke to the smell of ash up his nose and dry sand filling his mouth. He spit out the gritty soil and gave a hacking cough. His head and body throbbed at the action. (Future reference—don’t world hop via unstable rifts in time and space.) Having his head _not_ be throbbing every time he woke up would be great, thanks Dad.

His fingers curled in the sand whispering around him, and it was like coming to in the desert all over again. New world, bloody sand, and no other soul in sight.

At least—he wasn’t alone for long. By the time Lucifer had stood and dusted the ash off him as well as he could (it was thicker than it was in Hell, and that was saying something), a welcome party had gathered. Soldiers—they couldn’t be anything but soldiers—emerged from the smoke that billowed from literally everywhere. From their grim expressions, Lucifer had the feeling that they weren’t friendly. He flexed his empty hand and wished that his brother hadn’t stripped him of Dean’s angel blade. _Fuck you, too, Gabriel…_

“And who the hell might you lads be?” He addressed the group with a raspy cough. A wry grin split his face, and with ash painting his face and sand ingrained in every one his pores, he probably wasn’t far off from looking manic.

None of his welcoming committee spoke. They exchanged glances between each other. Finally, the group parted, and one—she held herself differently than the other—stepped forward. “ ‘Fraid you’ve come to the wrong place, Outsider.”

Lucifer laughed. “Really? Apocalyptic? Ashy? Generally dreadful? Sounds like I’m in the right place.”

The woman’s face scrunched, and the Devil could tell she didn’t take well to sarcasm. Too bad—that was about all he had left now.

“Who are you?” She inclined her chin at him, peering down her nose.

“I believe I asked first.”

The woman snorted, and a silver blade appeared in her hand in a flash.

“Ooh, shiny. You going to threaten me with it? Perhaps even give me a little tickle?”

(Rule number two of world hopping— _don’t piss off the locals._ )

The woman gave a sharp jerk of her head, and the group advanced. In each of their hands was a blade similar to the leader’s.

Lucifer muttered a curse under his breath, eyeing them cautiously. The first one darted forward, and Lucifer parried their downwards strike with his elbow. He knocked them away, sending them flying into the sand. As the soldier righted themself, another took their place. _Shit._

A soldier—burlier than the others—attacked from behind. Lucifer barely had time to twist around before the man was on top of him. They traded a few sharp punches before the soldier managed to land a solid blow with his blade. The silver sword sank into Lucifer’s shoulder, going about half way before it hit bone. A howl of pain gripped the Devil, and he threw the soldier off. The blade remained buried in his flesh, and with a shuddering breath, he yanked it out.

The others didn’t seem disheartened by his endurance, it seemed. They continued to press forward, slowly shrinking the circle they had formed around Lucifer.

A new soldier sprang forward. With a snarl twisting his face, Lucifer plunged his newly-acquired weapon into his enemy’s chest. The dead man’s sword glanced across his side, scoring a stinging scratch along his abdomen.

His wounds burned like brimstone, and the soldiers—four more in total, excluding the leading woman—surged in. Lucifer’s wings burst from his back, the usually soft feathers hardening into deadly-sharp edges. Rage and pain blurred the Devil’s sight, and when the haze bled away, he was left with pinions stained with dark blood and four mutilated corpses sprawled on the ground at his feet.

The woman stood just out of his reach, her expression aghast. She swallowed down the fear on her face, her grip on her weapon tightening. “What are you?” She spat, her eyes locked onto his once-white wings.

The heat of battle (or adrenaline, take your pick) faded away the worst of Lucifer’s pain. A serene calmness overtook him as he advanced on the woman. He cocked his head, his eyes dark and glimmering with flares of hellfire. “Haven’t you heard, darling? I’m the Devil.” His tone was cold, even to his own ears.

The woman backed up, nearly scrambling in her step. “Impossible…” She breathed. “Michael killed you. We all watched him do it—”

“Did he now?” A toothy grin curled its way onto Lucifer’s face. “Well, I’ll just have to ask him about that story myself, won’t I?” The woman slashed at him with her blade, but he easily knocked it out of her grip. He gripped her by the neck, hoisting her into the air. “I hardly think you’ll be the one to tell me.”

Killing her was easy; a well-placed sword to the heart put out her lights. Lucifer dropped her lifeless body to the ash-colored ground. He cast an eye at the battlefield behind him and started off in the direction the group had come from.

As he walked, Lucifer studied his new weapon. It was an angel blade, completely identical to the one Dean had given him. They had been angels. The thought made the Devil’s mouth drier than it already was, and his stomach roiled as the blood coating him—most of it not even his—dried and flaked off his skin.

His adrenaline faded, leaving him bone-tired and aching. His shoulder wound protested every time he jostled—it was nigh impossible not too on this world’s uneven terrain—and the slash on his side still burned. Lucifer was sure most of his clothes were bloodsoaked, but he was beyond caring at this point. With a few moments of grunting and cursing, he managed to send away his wings; they were filthy and clumped with sand and ash, but a nice preening would have to wait. He wouldn’t be flying any time soon—that was for certain.

The ash clouding the air grew thicker, clinging to everything. At this point, he probably looked more wraith or ghost than Devil. The only contrast to the pale gray was the stains of crimson streaking his face and shirt.

Finally, the smoke cleared, and a dark gray-green swath of forest spread out in front of him. Amidst the hellish landscape, it was more than likely a daydream his mind had conjured up. He trudged up to a tree and placed a hand on its rough bark. _Nope,_ he thought to himself, _It’s real._

Lucifer cast a searching eye through the thin undergrowth, futilely hoping that the Winchesters and Jack would appear in the haze of green and gray. A twitch in the bushes made his heart lurch with renewed optimism. A humanoid shape emerged, bundled in scraps and a dirty uniform—not his missing companions, it seemed. (Unless they had fallen in with the local bumpkins and armed themselves with an assault rifle.)

“Hands up.” The figure barked in a gruff, clipped tone.

Not keen on picking another fight, Lucifer slowly raised his arms, grimacing as his injured shoulder strained and pulled at the crusting wound. Luckily, it looked like his new friend wasn’t another angel, unless the feathery asses had switched out swords for bullets.

“Who’re you?” The man had approached with caution, the muzzle of the gun aimed at the Devil’s chest. His face, now visible in the half light, was streaked with mud and ash and was lined with age and stress. Shadowed eyes found Lucifer’s own.

Swallowing, Lucifer debated his answer. If past experiences were anything to go by, blurting out his name was probably a _very_ _bad_ idea. Still… who was he without his name? Stiffly, Lucifer bit out, “Morningstar.”

“That the whole of it?”

“It’s all you need to know.”

The man considered him, eyes squinting. He shifted, nodding slightly. “Alright… Where’d ya get that?” He nodded at the oozing hole in Lucifer’s shoulder.

“Pack of bloody angels, if you’d believe it.”

“Oh, I believe it alright. I’m more interested in knowing how you managed to get out alive.” Suspicion and wariness was written all over the stranger’s face, and the gun never wavered in its position.

“ ‘M hardly helpless.” Lucifer scoffed, a scowl pulling onto his face. He lowered his hands and edged them back up as the man shot him a challenging glare. “I gave the feathery bastards what they deserved—a proper thrashing. They hardly deserved the death they got.”

His companion’s jaw worked, and Lucifer could imagine the whirring of cogs as his brain turned over his thoughts. “And how’m I supposed to trust you?”

“Oh, you aren’t, I suppose, though I have no reason to mislead you. And there’s plenty of evidence back that way if you don’t mind a bit of a trek.” Lucifer jerked his head in indication of the battlefield he had left behind.

The man huffed, eyeing the direction as if he were considering.

“But… some hospitality would be nice. Bleeding out in this hellhole wasn’t the way I was planning on going.” Lucifer edged, his arm started to burn like acid was creeping through his veins.

His discomfort must have been evident on his face because the man’s expression softened minutely. “Alright, Morningstar. I’ll take you back to camp an’ get you patched up. After that, though—”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it?” Lucifer offered with a wry smile.

It might have been his imagination, but Lucifer swore the man’s lip twitched upwards. “Exactly.” The gun’s muzzle dropped from his chest, though the stranger still held it at the ready. “C’mon.” He started off into the depths of the forest.

As Lucifer fell in step with him, massaging his sore arms, he cast a glance at his new companion. “You know my name, so do I have the honor of knowing yours?”

“Singer.” The man’s reply was terse, and his attention barely flitted to Lucifer.

“That the whole of it?” Lucifer parroted, unable to keep the smirk from crawling onto his face.

Singer shot him a glare, but a touch of humor swam in his eyes. Nevertheless, he didn’t spit back a quip (much to Lucifer’s disappointment). They kept walking in silence; not even birdsong or the trill of crickets perpetuated the stagnant forest.

Despite his weariness, Lucifer kept alert. Or at least, he tried to. Some thirty minutes into their journey—Singer promised him they weren’t far off from his camp—the ground seemed to get more treacherous, and roots and rocks were harder to avoid tripping over. The woods remained silent, however; not another soul besides them stirred.

Finally, Lucifer could make out a faint string of smoke trailing through the trees—the kind of smoke kicked up by campfires and cookpots. By then, most of the feeling had drained from his arm, and the blood had congealed into a wet scab that tugged uncomfortably at his shirt.

“Infirmary’s this way.” It was the first words Singer had spoken since they had set off. Lucifer cast him a glance but trailed after him nonetheless.

Upon entering the infirmary—a somewhat-solid structure laid wall to wall with cots—the overwhelming scent of death, sickness, and misery threatened to knock him down. The sights and sounds were hellish—the only difference it held from Hell itself was that Hell was lacking in innocent children.

He had frozen in the doorway, Lucifer noted when he pulled himself out of his head. Singer was staring at him.

“Hope you don’t have a weak stomach.”

Lucifer pursed his lips and forced his legs to move forward. “Hardly.” Thankfully, he was well attuned to the pitiful sounds of suffering that emanated from the patients. Centuries in Hell would do that to a Devil.

Singer led him to an unoccupied cot at the far end of the infirmary. Lucifer sat down on the coarse fabric, doing his best to ignore the stains that looked suspiciously like blood and vomit.

“I’d best find someone to take a look at that wound.” With that, his companion disappeared and left Lucifer alone with the moans that droned on around him like a solemn hymn. The Devil’s eyes wandered, inspecting the patient that laid in the bed next to his.

She was young, though without the stress lining her face, she might have been younger. Her brown hair was partly covered by the blood-stained bandage wound around her head; her bruise-smudged eyelids were pressed closed, and Lucifer couldn’t tell if she were trying to block everything out or was merely sleeping.

He got lost in his numb thoughts, mind drifting. He didn’t notice when someone approached him, and he only started when a gentle hand prodded at his shoulder. Lucifer startled, every muscle in him tensing.

The man who had poked at him took a step back, hands thrust up placatingly. “Whoa, calm down. You looked pretty out of it.”

Lucifer blinked, shaking away the glaze blurring his vision. “ S’fine.” He mumbled, running his good hand over his face; it came away coated in ash and blood. He probably looked shell-shocked, he realized. “I’m fine.” He reiterated, his voice a bit clearer.

The newcomer chuckled softly. “You hardly look ‘fine’, man. You’ve got an angel-blade sized hole in your shoulder.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Lucifer fixed his focus on the man. He was fairly short with an unruly swath of dark hair pulled up in a haphazard bun. Like most of the other people Lucifer had seen, parts of his skin were streaked with mud and ash.

“Morningstar, right? Bobby said you had a tussle with some angels.”

“Bobby?” Quizzically, Lucifer arched his brow.

“Ah…” A moment of _‘oh, fuck, wasn’t supposed to say that’_ crossed the man’s face. “Singer.”

“Oh.” Lucifer could care less about the man’s full name; it didn’t mean anything to him.

“You mind if I, uh, take a look at that now?”

“What, you don’t have a name either?” Lucifer tugged at his shirt before managing to shirk it. Slowly, he peeled the scab away from the stab wound. Without the blood clotted cloth blocking it, the hole began to leak blood freely again. Swallowing a wince, Lucifer tossed the soiled shirt to the far end of the cot. He spared a scrutinizing glance at the slice on his side. Dismay sent icy prickles down his nerves as he realized that neither injury had started to heal yet. Usually it didn’t take long for his celestial composition to start stitching him up. As if mocking him, the slash on his abdomen started oozing blood again as well.

“Bloody hell…” The Devil muttered, gripping the edge of the cot. He looked up and found the man staring at him.

“How are you still conscious…?” The man swore under his breath. “Oh, and, uh, name’s José.”

Lucifer barely registered his name, instead looking down at himself. The man’s exclamation was reasonable. Most of his torso was slick with dark crimson, and his back crackled with the feeling of dried blood flaking off. “I, uh—” He swallowed, suddenly finding his throat quite dry.

“Don’t answer that, actually. Gift horse and all, right?” José procured a bowl of water and semi-clean rag from a nearby table. The cot creaked under their combined weight as he sat down beside the Devil. The water sloshed in the bowl as the man dipped a corner of the rag in; he began to wipe away the blood congealing around the mouth of the stab wound.

Once the wound was relatively clean, José pulled a needle and thread from his pocket. “Don’t worry—it’s been sterilized.” In a few practiced movements, he threaded the silk through the eye of the needle.

As if sterilization was at the top of Lucifer’s list of things to worry about. José’s fingers brushed against his shoulder, and Lucifer inched away. “I can do that myself.” He bit out tersely.

José gave him a skeptical look. “No offense, man, but your hands are shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. You’re more likely to give yourself acupuncture than stitch yourself up.”

Lucifer’s gaze drifted to his hands; much to his surprise, his fingers were trembling violently. Huh. The Devil curled them into fists, doing his best to quell the unwanted movements. “Fine.”

The man said nothing at his tone, instead going to work on his shoulder. The needle piercing his skin felt like a bee sting, and through his scattered thoughts, Lucifer marveled (with slight trepidation) at the fact that the needle _could_ break his skin. So he was having a bout of mortality. This little adventure had just become much more interesting.

“So what’s someone with your accent doing in this neck of the woods?” José’s voice yanked him out of his thoughts. Dimly, Lucifer noted that he had finished with his shoulder and had moved on to cleaning the cut in his side.

“Looking for someone. Or a couple of someone’s.” Lucifer replied truthfully.

“Sorry to tell you this, buddy, but they’re probably dead. That, or they’d be better off if they were. You’re the first outsider we’ve had in a few months.”

A trickle of dread ran down Lucifer’s throat. Insistently, he shook away the feeling. The others were alright, he told himself. And the Winchesters’ mother—he’d find her, too. And the other Devil—they’d drag his ass back to where he was supposed to be, and he could finally go home.

“You okay, man?”

Lucifer blinked and wearily lifted his head to meet José’s eyes. “Thinking.” He mumbled.

José nodded and stood, packing away his stitching supplies and picking up the bowl and rag. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then. Though, you’d be better off getting some rest. Y’ll heal faster that way.” He paused as if to say something else but reconsidered. “I’ll stop by later to change the bandages.” The man turned and started to check on the other patients.

Breathing a pained sigh through his nose, Lucifer eased back onto his back, careful not to jostle his newly-bandaged shoulder too much. His side twitched slightly as he brushed it against the edge of the rickety bed. Sucking in a slow breath, the Devil closed his eyes and allowed unconsciousness to sweep him away.

* * *

 A brittle cough seizing his lungs broke Lucifer from his state of deep sleep. The nightmares that had dug their claws into his head dispersed, leaving behind a cottony feeling. The coughing subsided, leaving him feeling nearly as drained as when he had fallen asleep. His shoulder ached with a dull throb, and his arm was far too stiff to move it properly.

Groaning, Lucifer slowly sat up. He inspected his injuries, surprised to find them bound in fresh bandages. At some point while he was resting, someone had tossed a blanket over him. The fabric was woolen, tiny threads scratching at his skin like nettles; nevertheless, the Devil gripped the blanket and wound it around his shoulders. A chill ran through him, setting his limbs to shivering.

Odd. And slightly worrying.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on the fact, though. Another cough squeezed his lungs, much more vicious than the first. It doubled him over and redoubled the shivers that racked him.

Lucifer waited for the coughing to stop. Unsteadily, he stood, heavily leaning against the wall nearest to him. As soon as he found his balance, he repositioned the blanket now serving as a cloak and started for the exit to the infirmary. Nobody made to stop him—the only person who looked to be in charge was slumped in a chair, dead asleep and slightly drooling.

Reason told him to go back and rest. Something was wrong, and he was more than likely going to get himself killed. That reasoning was quickly snuffed out.

The night sky greeted him outside, though the vestiges of dawn were bleeding across the horizon. Had he really been asleep for that long? Lucifer was ten feet from the infirmary before he realized he was without a shirt. Still, he had to get going. His wounds were patched up and wasn’t keen on overstaying his welcome.

Lucifer made it another twenty feet and had reached the edge of the camp before another bout of hacking coughs seized him. All of his energy abandoned him, and he slumped against the nearest tree. The bark was cold against his skin, but it burned like ice. A few drops of sweat beaded and fell from his nose. Lucifer pulled in a shuddering breath and pressed his eyes closed. It felt like someone had replaced his brain with a clump of fog and cotton.

“Morningstar? What the hell?”

A familiar, gruff voice jerked Lucifer’s eyes open, and he spied Bobby Singer staring at him a good fifteen feet away.

Shit.

Then, another voice caught his attention. It was distinctly feminine and coming from the woods to his right. Lucifer dragged his attention from the approaching Bobby to a duo emerging from the undergrowth. It was an older woman with wavy, short-cropped blonde hair and a fair amount of lacerations; she was draped in a plaid shirt that reminded Lucifer of the Winchesters. And following her like a lost puppy was…

“Jack?” Lucifer’s voice croaked from his throat, cracking at the end of the kid’s name.

Jack’s head darted up, and his eyes lit up when he spotted the Devil.

“Lucifer!”

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mortality's a bitch, eh, Luci? Also, good job on getting yourself sick, you donger. Be glad Jack finally showed up.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and such are highly appreciated; they really do encourage me to write. Tell me what you think so far. I'd love to hear speculations you have or anything you'd like to see in the future. This fic is part of a series called Hiraeth which is basically Lucifer Morningstar interacting with other dimensions and universes. I've already got a couple more planned and even one in the works. This is my largest project yet, and I do intend to see it through.


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